Raise the Bloodied Banner
by firelordzuko
Summary: 1792, just before the beginning of the French Revolutionary Wars. Two noble siblings run away from home. A courtesan struggles against the fall of Venice. When Lelouch and Nunnally are separated, they swear vengeance against the Revolution. While the latter takes up arms, Lelouch falls for the green-haired courtesan - and the bloody banner of the Revolution marches on ... LxC
1. On Wings of Angels

**This is an AU fanfiction **in two parts. This is part one, "**Raise the Bloodied Banner**"; the second part will be published separately as "The Flight of the Eagle". Don't expect fast updates, as this is a secondary FF to The First Servant.

**The premise:** It is the year 1792. Lelouch and Nunnally Lamperouge, runaway children of a Spanish noble, and Venetian courtesan Cecilia Cuzzoni get entangled in the terrors of the French Revolution.

**Warning ahead:** In this fic, three interconnected plotlines will collide. The chapters will each be told from the Point of View of one of the (now) three main characters, in the following order: Lelouch - Cecilia / C.C. - Nunnally. Cecilia will be introduced only later, though.

** Disclaimer:** Code Geass is not mine. I have taken loose inspiration from _The Count of Monte Cristo _by Alexandre Dumas and _War and Peace _by Leo Tolstoy, and the historical figure of Agustina of Aragon. Historical characters will appear in loads, with a focus on Napoleon Bonaparte and Sir Arthur Wellesley in the second part.

**Main Pairings: **Lelouch x C.C. x Mao

**Main Characters:** Lelouch, Nunnally, C.C. ("Cecilia Cuzzoni")

**Bibliography: **The research for this fanfiction will be thorough and far-reaching. For now, the main sources are Wikipedia, Stanford University's ORBIS for an approximation of travel times, Lord Norwich's _A History of Venice_, Volker Hunecke's _Napoleon - Das Scheitern eines guten Diktators _and some books about the French Revolution I couldn't be bothered to remember.

**Reviews are appreciated and will be responded to. I prefer a well-written review to a dozen faves.**

* * *

**What We Cling To**

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_First Part:_

* * *

**Raise the Bloodied Banner**

* * *

"_A revolution is an idea that has found its bayonets."_

– Napoleon

* * *

**On Wings of Angels**

* * *

_Near Cadiz, March 1792_

* * *

Frizzling, the candle ignited, bathing the room in warm orange light.

Lelouch put back the tinderbox in his coat's inside pocket, then placed the candle in the lantern. Remembering to take with him the saddlebag and the small pile of clothing he had prepared, he then pressed down the door handle, stepped out to the hallway and, careful not to make a single noise, closed it again.

He took a deep breath, then a smile slid on his face. So far, this was going well.

Slowly he tiptoed along the corridor, passing the door to his father's apartments. One of the floorboards creaked – Lelouch held his breath, halting.

No reaction from inside. His father was fast asleep … thank God.

His smile widened as he continued to the next door and stealthily entered Nunnally's chamber. He didn't bother to knock – she was sleeping, anyway.

Quietly, he set the lantern down on the bedside table as he used the rare opportunity to watch his sister in her sleep.

She looked so peaceful in his candle's light – curled up in the sheets, her chest slowly rising and falling. He leaned in to brush aside a strand of hair falling into her face. A somewhat mischievous smile played around her lips.

For a short moment, he almost regretted what he was about to do – even though it was certainly a chance not to be missed, as she would agree.

Snapping out of his silent adoration, he gently shook her bared shoulder. "Hey," he whispered, "Wake up …"

His sister shifted a little, then her eyes slowly flattered open. She stifled a yawn, looking up at him from sleepy eyes. "Brother …," she mumbled, "What …"

Lelouch gently put a finger on her lips, silencing her. "We need to be quiet," he explained.

She gave him a curious look.

"We're leaving," he then said.

At once Nunnally was wide awake. "Where to?," she whispered, sitting up in her bed. The sheet slid down a little.

Lelouch responded with a smirk as he handed her the pile of clothing he had prepared for her. "Put this on."

Beaming, Nunnally jumped out of bed and hurried behind the folding screen in her bedchamber's corner to change. "What time is it, anyway?," she quietly asked over the rustling of cloth. "So we're not going to the opera."

He chuckled. "Keep guessing."

There was a short pause. "Ah … that's boys' clothing …" His sister giggled behind the screen. "So … the harbour?"

"As if I'd ever take you to such a place," he commented. The harbour of nearby Cadiz certainly was no place for a young lady, and even less for his sister. "Say, where do you keep your jewellery? Anyway, think farther."

"Washing table, second drawer," Nunnally replied without thinking. "Hmm," she then made. "Farther, you say …" A moment later she had to suppress a delighted squeal. "D…don't tell me …"

"We're leaving," Lelouch gently ended her sentence. "Everything's prepared – we're leaving, Nunna. Never to return."

There was a long moment of silence. Anxiously he looked up. He noticed his hands were shaking.

He had long planned this night – had prepared everything they would possibly need. He had, over the course of the last two months, planned three separate travel routes, and painstakingly spread false leads for a fourth one. He'd gathered information from people who had done the same journey and had taken care of the financial side of their endeavour.

And of course the clothes he had just handed Nunnally were tailored to measure.

What he hadn't planned for, however, was the small, but horrifying chance that Nunnally would refuse. It had been on his mind, of course, but he had done his best to ignore it. Well, he couldn't do that now –

"Brother …," Nunnally whispered, her voice quivering a little. His eyes widened.

He had no idea what he would do …

Slowly, his sister stepped out from behind the folding screen, now fully dressed. In the candlelight, her eyes glistered, wet with tears, but she was beaming. Nunnally took a few insecure steps towards him, then pulled him into a deep hug. "Thank you," she quietly said, "I … I'm so glad …"

Greatly relieved, Lelouch returned the embrace. With this, the last obstacle had been overcome – now, nothing could go wrong any more.

After a moment, Nunnally broke the embrace and took a few steps backwards, grinning. "How do I look?"

He couldn't help but chuckle at this. The clothes he had picked out for her suited her well – she was wearing a man's shirt, a buff waistcoat cut at the waist, complete with white neckband and cravat, light buff riding breeches and black leather boots. Over her arm she carried a dark blue tailcoat, and, in her hand, a tricorne of the same colour.

"Marvellous," he commented. "If you hide your hair under the hat, you'll look just like a boy." That was no empty flattery – his sister's figure still being so boyish, he doubted anyone would recognise her for a woman. The close-fitted waistcoat would hide any trace of her budding breasts to even the most alert observer. She also looked even more adorable than usual.

She blushed a little, then quickly put on the coat. Lelouch turned back to her washing table. His sister didn't own much jewellery, and most of it she had inherited from their mother, who in turn had brought it with her from France. "Is there anything you want to keep for yourself?," he asked.

Nunnally was kneeling on the floor, reaching for something under her bed. "Ah, no," she absent-mindedly said. "They're nice, but I don't need them. It's not as if they actually held any memories … Jewels never really suited mother." Lelouch nodded and began to stuff the gems in one of the saddlebags.

Then his sister apparently found what she had been looking for and rose to her feet. From below the bed she had produced an old-fashioned, basket-hilted rapier in a leathern scabbard. Nunnally hesitated, looking up at him. "It's mother's …," she quietly noted, though an explanation was unnecessary. "Do you think … I might …?"

Solemnly, he nodded. "She wanted you to have it," he whispered in return. "It is only fair for you to keep it." Then a smile returned to his face. "You're right. This really fits mother better than her jewellery."

Positively beaming, Nunnally nodded, then quickly reached inside her coat to fasten it to her side.

Lelouch's eyes widened in horror. This … hadn't been what he had meant. While he had no problem with her keeping their mother's sword, the thought of his beloved little sister actually _wearing _it …

Wearing it would encourage her to use it, sooner or later. Not that he had any doubts about her – for a woman – exceptional capabilities, and of course he was armed himself and would protect her with his life, and yet …

Perhaps it was just that he didn't like to see his sister playing with sharp – or, God forbid, _phallic _– objects.

But there was nothing he could reasonably do about it, seeing that it made her disguise as a young gentleman even more believable. So he merely sighed, and took a step towards her. "… very well then. Just … be careful with it, alright?"

Nunnally rolled her eyes, but she nodded. Quickly she tied back her long, flowing hair, then put on the tricorne. Lelouch leaned in to gently brush aside a loose strand of hair. "How do you feel?"

She shrugged. "I guess I could get used to dressing like a boy. Those breeches are weird, though. They're rather tight on the legs, but loose around the groin, as if something were missing. Why's that?"

Lelouch flushed red at that question. He was immensely thankful for the flickering light of the candle – if she had seen him blush, she would certainly have pressed on just to tease him. And just how was he even supposed to explain …_ that?_

"Er … I believe that's a story for some other time," he finally responded. "For now … let's leave."

Silently, his sister nodded. Carrying the saddlebags over his shoulder, Lelouch took the lantern and stealthily stepped out to the corridor. Nunnally quietly followed him.

They descended the stairs to ground level, then left the house through the kitchen garden. The stables were only about a hundred Castilian feet from the manor house and they hurried towards them. It was a starry, moonlit night, and so Lelouch blinded his lantern to avoid them being seen.

There were only half a dozen horses in the stables – there would have been place for thirty. Their father had sold their mother's mare Ganymede shortly after her death, leaving only the pair of coach horses, two old hacks that had used to help at ploughing the manor's little farmland, and the siblings' mounts. They weren't particularly well-bred, but they certainly did their job. Nunnally had named her mare Nemo and had chosen for Lelouch's black stallion the name Gawain, supposedly because the nephew of King Arthur was also called the "Maidens' Knight".

He couldn't _quite _see what she had meant by that.

The horses were already saddled, ready to leave. Lelouch quickly fastened the saddlebag to Gawain's saddle, then they unbound their horses and let them outside the stable. They mounted.

Lelouch looked at his sister. Nunnally's face was half hidden in her tricorne's shadow as she looked around. "It looks peaceful," she quietly said. He followed her gaze.

The country house of the Count of San Luis was a medieval manor house, adjusted many times as the manor itself was lost to more successful landholders. Consequently, it was a mix of many styles. There was an embattled tower of rough stones, the original part of the house, and much of the later additions had been built around it. When one of their ancestors had falsely believed to have made it big in New Spain, he had added two low, more luxurious wings to it. An attempt to evoke more stately homes had been made and had resulted in classicist colonnades. Most of the walls were overgrown with vines. "As if nothing had happened …"

He nodded. "It's beautiful," he agreed. "Just like before."

They remained for a while, silently watching the lifeless manor house in the moonshine. Then, Nunnally turned her horse. "Let's leave," she said. "There is nothing that's keeping us but mother's grave."

"And she would have wanted us to go," Lelouch agreed, smiling. "Let's leave."

Without another look back at their father's house, they turned and rode away.

In later years, Lelouch had often wished they had hesitated and turned back that night. Everything would have been different –

But they couldn't have. For months they had dreamt of this very night, had planned and plotted. How could they have stayed after their mother's death? What was there that could have kept them? Lelouch knew that, had they turned back that night, they would have cursed themselves for it.

And yet, if only they hadn't –

Their mother had been a strange lady. Born as the daughter of a marquis in the Auvergne region of France, Marianne de Lamperouge had for some reason married an impoverished Spanish count some twenty years ago. They had met only once before, when she had accompanied her father on a diplomatic mission to Madrid in 1771. In 1775 and 1778, respectively, their children had been born.

Within months, Lady Marianne – the new Countess of San Luis – was known to all Cadiz as a kind and generous, if eccentric woman. She had exactly four loves: her husband, the opera, breaking in new horses and fencing. The latter three she had passed on to her children, the first no one had ever understood.

Carlos Zapata, conde de San Luis, on the other hand, was a man as boring as his name. The heir of a long series of unfortunate fools in charge of the family's estates, he had through hard work and hard bargaining managed to turn around the helm and, if not stop, slow down the constant dwindling of their revenue. He was a man with no sense of humour worth mentioning and no love for unnecessary waste of money, and that category to him included almost everything that made his family's life enjoyable.

Lelouch had never known what his mother had found remarkable about his father or why she had fallen for him.

"You didn't tell me where we're going," Nunnally interrupted his thoughts. Not in a bad way – there was something about them that made him feel weak and helpless.

"Ah," he made, hence thankful for the distraction, "How about you guess?"

She giggled. "We're leaving Andalusia, I suppose, and we're riding northwards. So … Madrid?"

Lelouch smirked. "Yes, yes, and no. Think farther."

"On the other hand, this is the road to Seville … and from there we could ride eastwards, to the coast …"

He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"And then … north again … Paris?"

"Definitely not. I'd prefer not to spend too much time in France, seeing how unstable it is right now. Think farther …"

"So we'll pass through France …," Nunnally whispered. They were riding knee-to-knee. "So … is it Italy? Milan? Rome? Venice?"

"And farther still!"

His sister gasped for breath. Her eyes widened. "Brother …," she weakly said.

Without so much as looking at her he knew what she was thinking. He could vividly imagine her eyes lighting up, her rosy cheeks reddening, her breath quickening.

"Yes," Lelouch firmly said, as always taking new strength in her happiness. "We're going to Vienna, Nunnally. The city of music …"

Wordlessly, his sister leaned in to kiss his cheek.

* * *

The journey by land to Vienna would take about 55 days. It would have taken only half the time to take a ship to Rome or Venice and continue from there, and would also have spared them the need to go through French territory – but it would also have cost more money than they could spare, even if they successfully sold the jewels.

Instead, they rode northwards to Seville, partially to divert possible followers of their actual destination, then followed the road to Valencia. From there, they followed the Mediterranean coastline north to Barcelona, and further north towards France.

They kept expenses low. Favoured by the weather, they usually slept outside the city walls, wrapped in their overcoats, instead of inns. This way, they had to spend only a few Reales each day on food.

That night they had spent outside of Figueres, a small town about 9 leagues north of Girona, just south of the border to France. The siblings had left at sunrise, riding further north. Perpignan was another 10 leagues from Figueres, which meant they would take 10 to 11 hours, not counting breaks. They had crossed the border around midday.

The rough Pyrenean mountains gradually became more gentle the farther north they got.

At dusk, they rested by a narrow brook. Lelouch led the horses to the water, a few feet upstream Nunnally knelt down to drink.

He, however, couldn't let down his guard. Resting his hand on his smallsword's hilt, he looked around on the forest clearing.

They had not seen a single other traveller on the road from the border. While that meant they were not being followed, it greatly irritated him – there had to be a reason for the lack of travellers. A peasant on the way back from the market, perhaps, or even a smuggler, would have eased his worries, but there were none.

What had happened here?

Nunnally turned to look up at him, frowning. "Are … aren't you thirsty, brother?"

He forced himself to smile as he handed her the reins of the horses and in her place knelt by the brook. Of course, she was right – he was thirsty, having ridden for hours. Still …

Oh, well. They'd made it through all of Spain without a problem, and at least there hadn't been any suspicious individuals on the road today. Pausing to drink wouldn't hurt.

As he leaned down to scoop some water with his hands, Nunnally sat in the lush grass next to him. She had used the opportunity to let down her hair. "You're so tense," she gently noted. "Don't be. We're in France! We've already travelled half the way to Vienna! And we've had no problems so far, have we?"

Lelouch smiled. "Ah, well … I guess you're right. I'm sorry."

His sister returned the smile, lying back in the grass. It was warm in the afternoon sun.

"I'm glad," she quietly said. "Because we're together all the time. It feels like it's always been like this … As if Cadiz was nothing more than a dream. As if the road is all there is to life."

There was a long pause. A light breeze ran through the treetops; birdsong and the brook's purling filled the air. "It's so peaceful," Lelouch whispered. "Like the Revolution had never happened …"

"Brother? … Let's promise that we'll always stay together."

Solemnly, he nodded. "I promise." There was nothing he would rather do. He would never let go off his sister, no matter what happened …

Nunnally's response was interrupted by a male voice, rough and angry, shouting in French:

"You there! Stay where you are!"

* * *

That was the opening. The next chapter will begin the plot proper. Please review.


	2. The Cockades of the SansCulottes

This chapter contains some M-worthy stuff (won't spoiler), horrible abuse of horses and some Wagner shoutouts. You have been warned.**  
**

Also, I mean no disrespect to the glorious French National Guard (which no longer exists, mind me).

**Royalist**: Ah, well. Sorry to disappoint, I'm a Bonapartist. If you have anything to say that even remotely relates to this fanfiction, you're free to say it. I recommend you make an account so I can reply.

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**The Cockades of the Sans-Culottes**

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_Roussillon, March 1792_

* * *

Alarmed, Nunnally jumped to her feet at the sound of the voice. As her hand automatically grabbed the ancient rapier at her side, she looked around on the clearing.

It took her a moment to spot the speaker, for he and his party blended well into the forest in their dirtied garments. There were six of them, she counted as they stepped out into the clearing.

The men were the most ragged creatures. Their faces were unshaven, sallow and haggard; their long, greyish hair loose and dirty. The men's attire was inspiring even less confidence. Three of them wore strange caps of soft red cloth, the others tricornes. All of them, though, had pinned tricoloured cockades in red, white and blue to their headgear, however, which was still the most uniform part of their dress. The rest of their clothing consisted of a colourful variety of flimsy shirts and outworn coats and jackets. None of them wore breeches; instead, their legs were covered by long, loose pants striped red, white and blue like the cockades. Two of them carried over their shoulders muskets with planted bayonets. One bore a spontoon, a type of lance used by infantry sergeants; the rest carried an assortment of pikes, swords and pistols.

Nunnally involuntarily took a step back. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her rapier. She nervously bit her lip. A quick look at her brother next to her.

Lelouch looked remarkably calm. His shoulders were loosely drooping, his back straight. With his left hand, he held his smallsword's sheath in place so that he could swiftly draw it. Only his eyes, ever open books to her, betrayed his anxiety. They were alertly scanning their surroundings and the strange men, looking for possible escape routes.

The leader of the men – the one who had spoken – stepped forth, pointing his spontoon at them. For a long moment, he just stared at them from cavernous, dull eyes in a jaundiced face. His cheeks were haggard; dark stubbles that looked more like a layer of dirt further distorted his face. Felted streaks of once-blonde hair grew exuberantly from his red cap. His dark brown coat had been patched repeatedly, his striped trousers were torn at the knees and sullied at the hem. Instead of shoes or boots, he wore rough wooden clogs. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, there were almost no teeth.

"Who're you?" His voice was as rough as his looks, an unclean bass, scratchy and somewhat aggressive.

"My name is Lelouch de Lamperouge," her brother calmly replied in French. The difference couldn't be greater. "and this is my sister, Nunnally. And who are we dealing with?"

Nunnally would have preferred her brother not to tell them their names – for as soon as the men had heard their name, and, more importantly, the nobiliary particle – "de" –, their expressions grew suspicious, if not hostile …

"I'm Citizen Marat," the leader of the group grimly snapped. What a curious way to style oneself, Nunnally wondered. Perhaps that was a local peculiarity? Or, rather, it had something to do with the uproar in France the past few years. If so, she trusted them even less.

She knew it was pretty hypocritical of her to be afraid of the men. Yes, they were poor, and yes, they carried arms, but so did they. Whatever hardship might have stricken those gentlemen, it did not make them bad people. In no way did it warrant such fear and suspicion on her part.

"Those are my men," he continued. "We're … National Guard from Prades."

At that, Nunnally sighed in relief and let go of her sword. Her brother also seemed to be relaxing a little. That explained the weapons. She had been wrong in her suspicions – no matter how rough the men looked, they had nothing to fear from gentlemen wearing the king of France's coat.

Though, to be fair, they didn't wear anything barely resembling the – as she had heard – dark blue coat of the National Guard. Then again, she had no reason to suspect the men of lying. Quite probably, they were simply short on supplies and continued to wear their civilian clothes with a distinguishing cockade.

Nunnally dared a faint smile.

"Pleased to meet you, Messieurs," her brother calmly replied, making the _citoyens _listen up. "Now, if that is all, we'd like to reach Perpignan before sunset …"

– when he was suddenly interrupted by a surprised ejaculation from one of the men.

Within moments, they were pointing their weapon at the siblings, ready to strike. Nunnally couldn't suppress a yelp, then she hastily reached for her rapier again. Then, however, she hesitated. There were two loaded muskets, one spontoon and three pikes pointed at her – if she drew her sword, she – and, most likely, her brother as well – would be dead within moments …

"You ain't French!," the leader exclaimed in realisation, at once aggressive and fearful. "You're riding north, so you came from Spain!"

Almost involuntarily, Nunnally grabbed her brother's hand. His fingers were cold. From the expression on his face, he had realised his mistake: if they were riding towards Perpignan on this road, that meant they were coming from south of the border. The siblings couldn't be from the area, for their French was the Parisian dialect of their teachers. They could have been returning French travellers, but no Frenchman would these days dare address soldiers of the National Guard as "Messieurs" …

"What are you?," the leader slowly snarled. "Some kind of spies?"

"Seems like it," one of the other guardsmen noted, looking somewhat frightened as he shakily pointed his musket at Nunnally. "We … we should report this to Paris …"

"Don't be stupid," a third one snapped back. "Can't have some arse-licking Feuillant commissar from Paris nosing into everything, can we?"

The leader ignored them. "You're spies, eh? You know what the Nation does to spies?," he continued to threaten the siblings.

Lelouch gently squeezed her hand in an attempt to insure her that, yes, everything was alright and, yes, he would get them out of this. She believed it without a moment's doubt – never would her big brother allow her to get hurt. "We aren't spies," she indignantly defended herself. "We're just normal travellers! Um … our mother was French, the daughter of the Marquis de Lampe…"

She barely saw it coming. Nunnally screamed when one of the men slammed the butt of his musket against her temple, knocking her down. She saw the grass coming closer. Darkening, fading to black.

Her brother screaming her name. The slight scratching of a sword being drawn.

Darkness.

* * *

When she came to, it had become night. The sun had set and the clearing was illuminated by the warm shine of a crackling campfire. The grass was soft and warm beneath her. In her ears rang the gentle dabbling of the brook like sweetest music. The air was filled with the scent of roasted meet, earth and …

That one was odd. The scent was metallic, but did metal have a scent? If she would have to list her associations, it would be "sharp" and "scraping", but also "sweet". She knew it from somewhere, but couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

And screamed.

In the grass, just beside her, lay her brother. They had taken much of his clothing, so that he was dressed only in his shirt, breeches and stockings. On first glance, he looked peaceful – his eyes were closed, there even seemed to be a faint smile on his lips … just like sleeping.

On second glance, however, his attempt to defend her had been without success. There was a large, bloody wound on his temple. A tiny trickle of blood ran down his cheek from the corner of his mouth. His nose was skew and probably broken. His body seemed to be covered in bruises.

He wasn't moving at all.

She screamed, and screamed, and screamed. "Brother!," she cried out as she quickly moved to his side and drew his lifeless body into a tight embrace. "W…wake up, please! Lelouch!"

Someone forcefully grabbed her arms and tried to draw her from him. "No!," she screamed, struggling to get free, pressing his body close to her – "Brother, wake up!"

Frantically she brushed aside a strand of bloodied black hair that fell in his face, kissed his maltreated brow, gently caressed his cheeks –

Brutally someone yanked her hair. She screamed, involuntarily let go of her brother. A curse; then a fist was slammed in her face and she was shoved back to the ground. Another blow to her face.

The man grunted something as he ripped off her clothes. His fellows cheered him on.

She bit her lips, tried not to scream lest she made them even angrier. Her eyes teared up in pain and grief as the first man thrust into her.

Brother was dead … they had killed him …

It was unbelievable. That her brother should have fallen like this – weak – defenceless …

As her lower body was torn apart, she averted her gaze from her brother. To look at him – to see him like this – his beautiful face distorted beyond recognition, his sharp wit forever gone from him _his voice forever silenced_

Pain.

The sharp stink of the breath and sweat of the man above her. The nauseating stench of dried blood.

The man's cap had fallen from his head to the ground, just left of her head. She stared at it. The cockade was plain in side, a dark blue pupil staring back at her from a bloodshot eye.

Gruesome colours; murderous flag.

What had driven their demise? This accursed cockade, that had destroyed it all. The monsters that had caught them probably had been simple highwaymen once, vagrants and outlaws. The Revolution had given them their place, had raised them beyond doubt.

At the same time, it had instilled them with hatred of all that was good and godly, all that were they. Their fate had been sealed when their lineage had been known.

And yet, she silently cried, why? Why did it have to be them? Their blithe hopes, their tender fraternal love, brutally broken and trampled on. Why would God punish them like this? _To me belongeth vengeance and recompence_, He had spoken, _their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them shall make haste. For the LORD shall judge His people …_

What could warrant such cruel judgement in this life? When had they ever done ill?

No.

Nonononono

The Lord had not helped her. Had taken brother from her. Had allowed bliss to become a nightmare. She could not rely on His grace.

That cockade, that symbol of Evil that had taken her brother, her honour and her purity from her, would not be stopped by Him. He would not interfere when all over Europe brothers were murdered and sisters violated under the banner of the Revolution.

Finally the last of the men let go of her, rolled off her and promptly fell asleep.

She lay back in the grass and stared at the sky. The stars were beautiful. Cold, and austere, unfazed by earthly concerns. She wished she could join them.

Everything hurt. The flat chest they had weighed on. The arms they had roughly held her down by. Her most intimate body parts were being consumed by a blazing, ice-cold fire. She had lost all feeling of time – she couldn't tell if it took her two or twenty minutes until she was able to crawl over to the dabbling brook to attempt and cleanse herself from blood, sweat and semen.

All the while, she didn't dare to look at big brother. Wanted to pretend, pretend everything was alright.

She took her time. Again and again she splashed herself with the brook's cold, clear water. It seemed to hurt a little less now.

_To me belongeth vengeance and recompence, _spoke the Lord.

Never again.

Never again.

_Never_. _Again_.

She would rob Him of His vengeance. If He let brothers die and sisters be raped on His earth, and only promised justice in Heaven –

It was her task to take earthly vengeance. To right what had been wronged, to protect the weak and fight the strong.

Nunnally slowly stepped out of the brook, then put on what remained of her clothing. Most of the buttons of her shirt had been ripped off, but the waistcoat would hold it together. Her hands were trembling, so that it took her far longer than usual to dress. When she was finally done, she returned to the stream. Her reflection was distorted by the flow of the water. The only sources of light were the faint shine of the campfire and that of the half-moon.

She saw was a long-haired boy in torn and sullied clothes, a rapier by his side and a tricorne on his head. With a tiny nod she turned around and drew her sword.

One by one, Nunnally killed the sleeping men by first slashing their throats, then running her blade into their hearts. She did so without any passion, but rather remained cool and sparing. She should have liked to slowly dismember them, rip out their bowels and make them suffer like they had made her suffer, but it was enough. It felt good to kill them: every slashed throat, every pierced heart, took a load off her. From every dead monster, she took new courage.

An angel of vengeance, she cleaned and sheathed the sword, then once more stepped through the camp and made sure her enemies were dead. Then she grabbed the dreadfully disobliging corpses by their feet and, one by one, tediously dragged them close to the fire. Taking a burning log from the campfire as a torch, she walked deeper into the forest to collect dry firewood. She had to return to the forest several times until she had enough wood.

She drank from the brook, then continued to pile the wood between the campfire and the corpses. Nearby one of them she found two bottles of cheap brandy, one of them still full, and generously poured its contents over the corpses and the wood. Then she quickly ripped the accursed cockades from the men's hats.

Nunnally took a deep breath. Then she threw the tiny ribbons into the fire, forcing herself to watch them being consumed. "Thus to all," she whispered over the crackling of the fire. "Thus to whomsoever calls these colours his, and all they stand for. Thus to all who break two siblings' tenderest bond. Thus to all who high-handed rob a girl of her honour. Thus to all who murder innocents. Thus to the strong!"

With these words, she threw the last of the cockades into the fire. She paused to gather for a moment.

Then, she took one of the burning branches from the fire and held it to the alcohol-dripped coats of the men. "Arise, you flickering flame!," she shouted as the first of the coats ignited in a darting flame. "Enfold that scum with fire!" Four further bodies quickly followed. "Vulcan! Vulcan, come hither!" Finally, she sat fire to the last body – that of the leader – and took a step back to examine her work.

The campfire had grown into a blazing funeral pyre. Blazing flames engulfed her enemies, them that had cursed her, them that had hated her, that had despitefully used her, and persecuted her. All of them were dead and burning.

Now she was truly alone.

She felt something wet on her cheeks and tried to brush it aside. Only then, she noticed that she was crying. How strange, some distant part of her mind thought, that only now, after she had endured all and abandoned the last shred of humanity, she could cry. She laughed at that, as the tears ran down her cheeks and she was shaken by uncontrollable sobs.

Still crying, she slowly turned to face her brother and knelt before him. He looked peaceful. She tried to carry him to the brook to wash his wounds, but collapsed under his weight. Erecting the pyre had taken its toll. Her sobs intensified. Herself she could avenge, but not even give the one person she had loved the most a proper burial!

"I am sorry," she whispered over her sobs as she covered his maltreated face in kisses, "I am sorry, brother, so sorry!

"If only I could change places with you," she whispered, "I would I were dead, if only you were alive! I … I would I were with you again …" Again she kissed him, gentler this time. "For that is all I ever wanted, brother. It doesn't matter if it's in Cadiz or Vienna, if only I were with you … and now, you're taken from me, forever …

"I have killed them, brother. Killed them that deserved to die. I … I don't have any regrets. It didn't help. You're still … I have been tainted. I have, in my revenge, abandoned the last shred of humanity. I am sorry, brother. I think you would hate me now …"

Another sob. "Look at me … I cannot even give you a proper burial. What should I do, brother? What shall I do? If you're still there, watching over me, please … give me a sign, any sign …"

She paused and waited, but nothing came. Silently, she drew the body into a tight embrace. It was still warm. "If you are still there, then … I offer you my body, if only you will stay with me … let me carry you inside me, _live on _within me! … I beg you, brother."

Nothing happened. Nunnally sighed. Her tears fell on the body's shirt. "Farewell," she whispered, "farewell, my bold, beautiful brother! You holiest pride of my heart … farewell … farewell … farewell! If I must leave you … if I must lose you, whom I loved … know that your sister carries your heart inside her chest …"

She closed her eyes, pressed her brow against his. Bit back the tears. Gently ran her thumb over his closed eyelids. "That bright pair of eyes … that often rewarded me with smiles … when lust of play won me a kiss, when pleasant chatter in praise of me ran from your dear lips: that radiant pair of eyes, that often in tempests blazed at me, when hopeful yearning burned up my heart, when for worldly joy we longed amid wild wearing fear: for the last time let them delight me tonight, with farewell's last kiss …! May their stars shine in Heaven, for thus to me they have closed in parting … For thus I depart from you … for thus … I kiss your life away …"

Halting, she looked at her brother's corpse. Tenderly she let it sink back into the soft grass and leaned in. Softly, her lips brushed against his. "For thus …," she repeated quietly after she had parted from him again, "I kiss your life away …"

Her tears had dried out. She rose to her feet. It was surprisingly easy – for just what did she leave behind? A pile of meat, hair and cloth. An ape without hair. A painting without music. That – that lifeless body was no longer her brother.

Nunnally turned around.

The pyre was violently blazing. She could barely spot the corpses through the flames.

Their horses were still tied to a tree by the brook in some distance. Without looking back, she untied them and mounted Gawain while still holding on to Nemo's reins. She hesitated.

Where was she supposed to go? Her brother was dead. Going to Vienna was pointless now. The city, the music, meant nothing any more. Nothing but a bad dream. Not without her brother. She couldn't pretend nothing had happened. What _could _she do?

She gently pressed her heels into Gawain's flanks. All she knew was that she had to leave.

"Let's go back," Nunnally eventually whispered, more to Lelouch inside of her than to her horse. "Go back to Cadiz. At least … at least we'll have a place to stay …"

She turned her back on the site of their nightmare. Turned her back on the mortal remains of the one person she had loved over all others. Turned her back on her old life.

But just why couldn't she stop crying?

* * *

She rode one night and one day, changing horses when Gawain collapsed under her.

She didn't know how much time had passed. Eventually, neither Nemo nor herself could go on. She slipped out of the saddle. Uncontrollable sobs were shaking her, tears ran down her cheeks. Weak, and powerless.

When she drew her rapier to end her suffering and send her brother to Heaven, a strong, gentle hand twisted the hilt from her grip. She was drawn into a tight embrace. Cried, cried, cried on the dusty shoulder of an old army greatcoat. "Shh," a rough, but warm male voice made. "Calm down …"

The voice then asked for her name. She told him, begged him to kill her in the name of his monstrous Revolution.

"My name is Todo," said the voice. "And I have no intention of hurting you. Let me help you, Señora."

* * *

Please review.


	3. The Priest

I have done some extensive research on the rite of the Tridentine Mass before the Second Vatican Council for this chapter. I'd like to thank the website of the Brotherhood of St. Paul in particular, where they provide the Latin text of the old rite Requiem mass. Not that I needed it. The longer Latin text (_In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum ..._) is the Vulgate of John i, 1-14, the so-called "Last Gospel" because the reading of it is the last rite of the Mass, after the "Ite, missa est". It's the "In the beginning was the word" bit.

Argelès-sur-Mer is a real fishing village in the department of Pyrenées-Oriental. It had 847 inhabitants in 1793 and today has some touristic industry. The parish church I described is the Eglise Notre-Dame del Prat, originally built in the 14th century and received a new vault in 1780. It has a notable Romanic belltower. I cannot guarantee the parishioner was a V.V. expy, though.

In case you're interested into such things, Lelouch was a 4 out of 15 on the Glasgow Coma Scale during the last chapter, having had a severe concussion. That means (nowadays) that he is in serious need of immediate treatment and is not unlikely to remain comatose for a long time. Nonetheless, this chapter takes place two days after the last one.

I also realised I made a mistake when I talked of the buttons of Nunnally's shirt. At the time, shirts had no buttons, but were rather similar in their cut to t-shirts or polos. They were longer than nowadays (the tailsbeing used as a sort of loincloth/underpants to catch leaking urine), and closed at the front. The neck was fastened by cords and usually worn together with a neckband and cravat. So, no buttons.

If I have in any way violated contemporary theological thought in this chapter, please note me on it.

The Civil Constitution of the Clergy was a law passed in July 1790 by the National Assembly and, after a while, enacted by His Most Christian Majesty the King of the French. It subordinated the Roman Catholic Clergy of France to the French government, outlawed monastic orders, and decreased the number of French bishops from 135 to 85, one for every department. Under the Civil Constitution, all clergymen were elected indirectly by their flocks, with no requirement that the electors be Catholic, and forced to swear an oath "to guard with care the faithful of his diocese who are confided to him, to be loyal to the nation, the law, and the king, and to support with all his power the constitution decreed by the National Assembly and accepted by the king." The pope's authority was reduced to being the figurehead of the clergy and French Catholicism.

"_Occisor_" is Latin for "murderer".

None of this has any relevance to this chapter.

* * *

**The Priest**

* * *

_Argelès-sur-Mer, March 1792_

* * *

Salt.

The air was salty, and wet. The faint smell of fish from the harbour. The first to set out in the morning were the fishermen. They set sail in their boats long before sunrise to exploit the Atlantic fishing grounds, when the port was still abandoned. Once, fishing had been the primary source of income for the lower classes of Cadiz. Only when the river Guadalquivir had begun to sand up and made the route to Seville hardly navigable, this had been changed. Out of a sudden, all the riches of the Spanish Americas poured into the city, and with the riches came commerce and industry.

Just before sunrise, the harbour awakened. First came the sailors, coarse, ribald and oft drunken. Now, however, they were all sober as they silently boarded their ships and prepared to cleared port. Shortly afterwards, around sunrise, came the ships' owners, if they were residents of Cadiz. They verified the completeness of the freight, handed the captains their orders and, possibly, passengers. Then, they left the ships and they set sail.

On summer evenings, when their family had moved to the town house for the social season, he would often take his sister to watch the sails fade into the brilliant sunset from the Castillo de San Sebastián. They would sit on the terrace of one of the coffeehouses along La Caleta and watch for hours, once in a while sipping at their coffee. They barely talked: words were unnecessary and, indeed, meaningless, in the face of the vast fleet of merchantmen, frigates and liners leaving for the New World.

It had to be about that time, Lelouch figured, for warm sunlight tickled his nose. His bedchamber's windows were all in the west, so it would be evening. On the other hand, that could just be his mind tricking him: that would certainly fit the excruciating headache, that cruel hammer against his brow. It drowned out every clear thought. What had happened? He felt as if he someone had slammed his head against a wall, for hours, again and again.

Throb.

Throb.

Throb.

He shifted a little in his bed. The sudden movement only made the headache worse. Also, the sheets were scratchier and the mattress harder than usual. He would have to have a word with the servant responsible.

Throb.

Throb.

Throb.

The smell of salt from the window. It was remarkably silent, unusual for the business-minded beehive that was Cadiz. Perhaps there was something special going on? Judging from how warm the air was, it could well be the time of the carnival. February, perhaps. That would explain his headache, as well …

Throb.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. First the right one. Bright light. Blinding. He almost closed it again. Like an anvil on his head. Then, he forced himself to open the left eye as well. The sky through an open window. The sun. His bed was facing south – had he turned around in his sleep?

He sat up in bed, then involuntarily raised his hand to his temples to alleviate the headache. Lelouch groaned, then clenched his teeth. He had, apparently, overindulged in the carnival, so he would have to shoulder the consequences. Still, that was no reason to spend the day in bed whining.

Carefully he rose to his feet. He felt dizzy, had to lean on the bedside cabinet. Then, he looked around.

This was not his room.

A small, sparse room. Grey walls, timber piling. A narrow bed. A washing stand. His clothes and sword lay on a wooden chair by the bed's foot; he was naked. Alarmed, Lelouch hobbled to the window.

This wasn't Cadiz.

A small, walled town of perhaps a hundred houses. A tall, square church bell tower. Fishing boats. A long, gently curved beach.

Out of a sudden, he remembered what had happened. They had run away from home, he and Nunnally, to go to Vienna. And then, upon crossing the border to France …

Lelouch cringed, then hastily started to dress. How could he have forgotten? That he was relatively alright made him hope, but he had obviously gotten a lot of stick in the fight with the National Guardsmen – the question being, had he been able to protect his sister …?

An icy shiver ran down his spine. The thought alone terrified him.

He reached for his waistcoat. Something about the sudden movement ran a searing pain through his body. He collapsed, and screamed; he clung to the edge of the chair and grit his teeth. White, blazing pain.

For a moment, he remained cowering on the ground. He could barely hold back the tears of pain and desperation. If he could not even dress himself, if he could not even stand up, how should he protect his sister?

Slowly and cautiously, he rose to his feet again, holding on to the chair for support. Screw the waistcoat – Nunnally was more important than being dressed properly. Instead, he merely grabbed his smallsword (once more, a sharp pain shot through his body as he reached out his arm. This time, he endured it.).

The door was opened. Someone had heard him scream.

At once, he had the intruder at swordpoint.

Lelouch's breathing was shallow and fast. For a long moment, the intruder stared at the sword pointed at him, blinked three or four times. Then he slowly took a step back and raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

The intruder was a man in his fifties with loose, shoulder-length hair that had probably once been light blond but now was a greyish brown. Wide, dark violet eyes stared at the sword from a round, slightly wrinkled face. He wore a black cassock with a white-trimmed rabat and a wooden crucifix around his neck. The man nervously licked his lips. "I … I mean no harm to you," he slowly said in French.

Lelouch ignored him. "Where's my sister?," he roughly questioned, pressing the point of his sword against the priest's chest.

There was a long moment of silence.

Throb.

Throb.

"I … don't know."

Throb.

His eyes widened. His hand trembled. He bit his lips. "Don't lie to me, abbé," he snapped. "Where. Is. She?"

"I really don't know!," the priest insisted. "Just listen to me, please! Let me explain!"

Another pause. He moved his sword's point up to the man's throat, but remained silent. The sharp steel drew a tiny trickle of blood.

"My name," the priest quickly continued when Lelouch didn't object, "is Victor Valéry. I am the parishioner of this town .Two days ago, you were brought to me by a … a gentleman from Toulouse on his way to Spain. He told me … that he had found you on a clearing a few miles to the south, unconscious. Beside you were the remains of a fire and …"

He gulped and halted. "Do continue," Lelouch pressed on.

"In the fire lay the charred remains of six human bodies."

A nightmare come alive. Gruesome images haunting his mind. A black, tallowy mass of ashes and bones, distorted beyond recognition. Nunnally staring at him from the dark, her eyes wide open, hurt and accusing. How could he have allowed her to die, she would ask, when he had promised to protect her? How could he abandon her when he had sworn not to?

Lelouch opened his mouth to say something and closed it again.

He was shaking with fear and couldn't do anything about it. He took down the sword and Father Victor sighed in relief.

Their mother's death had been easy to bear with Nunnally around to comfort him, and distract him by needing to be comforted herself. But this he could not, would not bear – this brutal ripping out of part of his heart, this cruel destruction of all that he needed –

Six.

There had been six men. Counting Nunnally, however, one was missing – which meant she could be _alive_ …

"A…are you sure it was six?," he breathlessly asked. The priest nodded. "Once I had taken care of you, I went there myself with some fishermen to bury the bodies. It was definitely six. Why do you ask?"

How strange indeed. Here he was, having lost everything that had made his life worth living. He had no idea where Nunnally was or even if she was alright – or, indeed, if she truly was _alive!_ He did not know what had happened to her, nor how to find her. Himself, he was crippled by pain and presumably stranded in the middle of nowhere with neither money nor horses. And yet –

Before him, a bright light had appeared from the darkness. Suddenly, his situation didn't seem so grim any more, rather he felt like rejoicing and jubilating, for she was _alive._

"_They _were six," Lelouch quickly explained, breathing heavily in excitement. "If my sister had been among the … the bodies, they would have been seven."

The priest gave him a look that probably counted as a pitiful smile. "You should not get your hopes up," he gently said. "Those corpses didn't burn themselves."

"… what do you mean?," he snapped back, irritated. Every moment he spent here chatting with that troublesome priest when he could be looking for Nunnally was a moment wasted …

"I mean," the other man cautiously explained, "that someone must have killed the men in their sleep and burned their corpses. If your sister is alive, it must have been her …" He broke off. It would have been hard to pronounce the consequence, and cruel, too. It was also unnecessary – the question was obvious. The room was filled by its presence, and yet none of them could acknowledge it.

_Do you think your sister would have been capable of murdering six grown men and abandoning her brother?_

Lelouch took a step back. His fingers loosely held the sword's hilt. The temperature seemed to have dropped.

What was he to say? It was only logical to assume that. How, indeed, could Nunnally be alive and _not _be the murderer? How was he to explain to the priest that he knew, knew his sister better than anyone else, that Nunnally would not, _could _not have committed an act of violence, let alone murder, even if it were justified? That Nunnally, his sweet and gentle girl, was as pure and good as an angel –

And still was alive?

"You don't think she did," the priest noted.

"She must have …," Lelouch whispered, trembling once more. He had to sit down on the edge of the bed "I … I _know _she is alive, so … she must have …"

"That is what you feel," his host gently said. "You cannot know. Our feelings cannot be relied on. Often, when we have wishes like intense, blazing fires which completely consume us, which overshadow every other ambition or need we might have, our frail minds are unable to further bear it. Then, we try to help ourselves and extinguish the savage fire within us. We develop feelings that try to answer our wishes with false promises. And, though they may soothe and calm us for the moment, the greater their lie, the more it hurts when reality shatters them. Such feelings are a lie to ourselves. We have to rely on what we can see – that is reality. Everything else is feigning.

"You knew your sister better than me. Let me explain my theory to you. Please try to listen to it impartial and calm. Your sister suffered a martyrdom that night. I cannot even begin to think of what precisely she might have been made to suffer at the hands of your attackers. What is obvious, however, is that she was still alive at the end of it. Now, the marauders were threatened by her life: she had seen their faces, perhaps heard their names. No matter what, it was enough to get them into a lot of trouble, should she tell the authorities of it. I fear there have been several incidents of the sort during the last two years in this area – while we cannot prove it, everyone knows that the criminals are the sans-culottes. Mostly former highwaymen, of course. So far, there have been no survivors. So … they killed your sister to silence her."

Lelouch gave a tiny nod. It made sense. Far too much sense. "Then what about the other dead?," he whispered.

"That … depends. Did you carry anything of value with you?"

Again he nodded. "Two good horses … some jewellery and money. To pay for our journey."

"Then this is what I think. One of the men got greedy. Perhaps he had an argument with the others. He would have all the booty for himself, cross into Spain and, with the money, begin a new life. He waited until the others were sleeping, then he killed them. However, there were people who knew him. If his corpse had been missing from the others, they would have noticed. He needed six corpses no one would recognise. It had to appear as if they got in a fight with another group over your belongings and were killed by the others. So … he took your sister's and the others, soaked their clothes with brandywine … and burnt them. Then he took your horses and belongings and rode southwards."

The priest fell silent.

Silence.

Salt.

Every word a dagger in his heart. He knew. He felt –

She had to be alive. He felt it. He would have known if she were dead.

And yet, deep within, he knew.

Nunnally was dead.

Taken from him.

And she would never come back to him.

And he was alone.

Slowly, Lelouch rose to his feet. His body's pain seemed gone, numbed by his heart's. "I shall find him," he roughly whispered. "Wherever he is … I shall find him … kill all who are dear to him … take everything from him … and then give him the pain he deserves …" Haltingly, he went towards the door.

The priest's hand on his arm held him back. "Would she have wanted that?," he gently offered. "You seemed distraught at the mere suggestion that your sister could have avenged herself. Would she truly have wanted you to stain your hands with blood in revenge?"

Lelouch paused. "Step aside, abbé," he then grimly murmured. The priest did not. "You are lying to me," he added. "Are you not? You're in league with _them. _You want to fool me …"

His opponent straightened his back. His lips were a hard line. "Not in the slightest. I have, years ago, sworn my twin brother never to lie. I swear on the blood of Christ that all I told you is true and to my best knowledge. If you want to, you can inspect the site yourself, though I have already buried the bodies."

There was a long moment of silence. The priest looked out of the window. "It is time for me to sing Mass," he said. "Will you be my congregation?"

Lelouch nodded.

Father Valéry changed into black liturgical vestments, then returned to help his guest downstairs and, through the passage between the church and the rectory, into the small and plain parish church. White-painted walls; small, colourful windows; a wooden ceiling vault. Above the altar hand a simple wooden crucifix. It was dark. They were alone in the church.

Lelouch sat on the ground beside the altar as the priest spoke the _Kyrie_, his voice quiet and solemn. He barely listened, his mind was swept bare. Only when the priest quietly intoned _Dies irae _did he notice that he had departed from the usual Holy Mass – instead, he was singing a Requiem Mass. A Mass for the dead.

A Mass for Nunnally. Every stab in his heart a pain far greater than any headache, than any other pain. Silently he joined the priest in prayer, whispered the responses to his versicles. He received the Sacred Host, more out of habit than out of devotion. It was more than just a little strange – hearing Mass and taking Communion as if nothing had happened.

He felt strangely empty. He should have expected to be devastated, closer to death than life. Nevertheless, he couldn't even bring himself to cry, it seemed – it seemed all to unreal. He couldn't _believe _it. It seemed to him that he could escape this nightmare, just for a while, a moment, not long, just long enough – if only he continued to think of Nunnally as Nunnally, instead of a charred corpse buried somewhere. As if his wish could manifest and raise her from the dead.

He remembered hearing Sunday Mass with Nunnally at Cadiz Cathedral – the scent of incense in the air, the solemn murmurs of thousands of voices, the unfinished cathedral filled with the choir's song. Watching the nobility and rich burghers of the city in their elaborate costumes, struggling not to fall asleep during the sermon, waiting in line to take Holy Communion. Nunnally smiling at him over her shoulder as she stepped forth and knelt to receive the Sacred Host.

He remembered standing by their mother's coffin in one of the side chapels, his arm wrapped around black-clad, weeping Nunnally as their father stoically observed the officiating priest.

Now, he had no one to comfort him. Within a year he had lost both his mother and his sister, and could not even take solace in seeing his beloved sister's beautiful, untainted body laid out, prepared for burial, _almost _like sleeping –

"_In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum, hoc erat in principio apud Deum. Omnia per ipsum facta sunt; et sine ipso factum est nihil quod factum est. In ipso vita erat et vita erat lux hominum. Et lux in tenebris lucet; et tenebrae eam non conprehenderunt. Fuit homo missus a Deo, cui nomen erat Iohannes. Hic venit in testimonium ut testimonium perhiberet de lumine ut omnes crederent per illum. Non erat ille lux, sed ut testimonium perhiberet de lumine. Erat lux vera quae inluminat omnem hominem venientem in mundum. In mundo erat, et mundus per ipsum factus est, et mundus eum non cognovit. In propria venit, et sui eum non receperunt. Quotquot autem receperunt, eum dedit eis potestatem filios Dei fieri his qui credunt in nomine eius: qui non ex sanguinibus, neque ex voluntate carnis, neque ex voluntate viri, sed ex Deo nati sunt. Et Verbum caro factum est_ _et habitavit in nobis et vidimus gloriam eius gloriam quasi unigeniti a Patre plenum gratiae et veritatis_."

Lelouch rose to his feet and murmured the response, "_Deo gratias_". "Thank be to God".

The priest closed the Gospel according to St. John, stepped back from the altar, crossed himself and turned to face him. "I shall pray for your sister's soul," he said in French. "I advise you to do the same."

He quietly nodded. "Thank you. I would pay you, but I have no money."

Father Valéry grimaced. "I do not ask for money," he said. "Only that you leave as soon as possible.

Expressionless, Lelouch stared back at him. Of course, he realised, he was a nuisance for the parishioner. Still – what a question. Where was he supposed to go? Where was his place, if not by Nunnally's side? It was not as if he could leave. Vienna had become pointless. Cadiz had long been horrible. The entire purpose of their journey had been to give Nunnally the life he deserved.

"To speak frank," the priest continued, "you are getting me in trouble. I am hosting a foreigner without permission – in days like these, that could get me imprisoned for sabotage. Not to mention I already am on a bad footing with the Prefect sent from Paris because I and most of my colleagues in Roussillon have denied the oath of loyalty to the Revolution's Civil Convention of the Clergy."

There was a long pause. Lelouch averted his gaze, pretended to admire the gilded liturgical objects spread out on the altar. As much as he hated to admit it, the priest was right – he would have to leave.

"Where were you going?," the priest further inquired.

"Vienna," he whispered. "We were going to Vienna …"

"Then you should continue," Father Valéry proposed. "You cannot stay in France. You could return to Spain, I suppose. But you should look forward. I shall give you some money to pay for passage on a ship from Narbonne. One of the peasants in my flock will be able to give you a ride. After that, you're on your own." Pause."Whatever happens … do not take revenge on the man that killed her. _To me belongeth vengeance and recompence_, speaks the Lord. Instead, you should do a good deed. Do something your sister would have been proud of. That is all the advice I can offer."

Lelouch nodded, slowly.

They had left behind their mother's grave without a second thought. "What is a grave," Nunnally had said, "but a heap of earth with something resembling a human in it?" A charred corpse somewhere was not Nunnally – for Nunnally was a smile, a laugh, a gentle word, a pair of lilac eyes. A sweet and tender memory. He could leave behind a corpse if only he retained that memory, enclosed it in his heart and held ever on to it.

"I would like to be alone for a while," he then quietly said.

The priest hesitated, then he nodded and turned to leave. By the passageway to the rectory, he halted. "I expect we will be at war with the Empire within the next month," he said. Lelouch didn't react. What did it matter to him if France and Austria, von Habsburg and de Bourbon continued with what they had done for centuries? "I recommend you make haste."

"I shall leave tomorrow."

With one last lingering, wary look, the priest disappeared and closed the door behind him.

Slowly, Lelouch knelt in front of the altar and folded his hands in prayer. Every bone in his body hurt, but he barely felt it. He looked up at the crucifix above the altar.

The priest had read John I, beginning at the first verse, as liturgy dictated. _In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. _Where was that light now?

There hang the Lord, upon the gilded cross, his body twisted in pain, grimacing. His ribs showed. That miserable display of anguish was supposed to be the "light of men"? _His _light had been Nunnally, and he didn't care about redemption if gaining it meant giving up on that light. Indeed, he did not comprehend it.

Lelouch gulped. Something had happened, something he didn't quite understand. "Had been". Not "was". Had he already given up on her this easily? Had he already banned her from the realm of the living, when she had been everything that did live to him?

Something. Wet, hot tears on his cheeks. Nevermore would he see her smile, nevermore hear her voice. With her, _everything _had been taken from him; redemption had been taken from him. "Lord!," he cried out, "Lord! Give her back to me!"

There was no response from the altar. Neither did Christ descend from his cross, nor did the tabernacle open and the Sacred Host speak."Just …," he whispered, sobbing. Shaken by tears, collapsed on the steps. "Give her back to me …"

Nunnally's smile in the dark. Her kiss as they left home. Her cries, muted by an ocean of darkness, as she reached out for him and was ripped away. "I love you, brother", "let's leave, brother", "I'm so glad we're together", "why did you let me die?" She stood before him, unashamed of her nudeness, raised a thin, milky white arm and pointed her finger at him. Her bright eyes harsh and cold. Silence. Something was dripping from between her legs. He reached out for her to clench her knee, she stepped back. Unwavering the finger was pointed at him. She opened her mouth. Her lips formed a big, round "o". Her voice thundered through the church.

"_Occisor!_"

He screamed, scrambled to hold on to her, tried to grasp her ankle, grasped at nothing. Screamed. "Forgive me, forgive me!"

With a disdainful look at her murderer, the light of men turned away from him and once more stepped up to her cross.

Leaving him curled up on the steps, silently sobbing.

Hours could have passed. She didn't return. The emptiness within him was different than before: tore on him from inside.

He raised his head, stared at the crucifix. Nunnally was gone, replaced by the Lord.

"You are a cruel god," he whispered. "A god who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones … who could have made every single one of them happy … yet never made happy even one … a god who could grant eternal life, yet chooses to cut it short … a god who mouths justice, yet invented hell, mouths mercy, yet invented hell, mouths forgiveness, and invented hell! Who mouths morals to other people, yet has none himself, who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all, and finally, with divine arrogance, invites his poor abused slave to worship him! There is no need for gods that only takes – for gods of _murder!_"

Lelouch bit his lips that his mouth filled with his own blood. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and put his hand on the cold, sacred marble of the altar. "I will bear with it no longer," he said. "You, who took Nunnally away from me, when you could just as easily have saved her; who gave her to me only to see me lose her, are not a god I can _worship._ I despise you, Lord! I hate you with all my heart! You are vile, vengeful, cruel, jealous, selfish, malicious, a capricious tyrant; you are the true monster! If this world be yours, if this world be your wish, then take me out of it – or suffer my revenge!"

Pause.

"Destroy me," he asked. "If you will not give her back to me, take me to her side. Do not force me to live like this. Smite me, Lord! Take delight in my downfall! Let lightning and thunder strike me – or let me live. But know that, from this day forth, I shall be your enemy."

He closed his fist around the edge of the altar. "That I swear upon your table. I will no longer submit to your judgement. If your will wishes for sisters to be murdered and brothers' lives destroyed, if your will is with the Revolution that you chose as your tool, then I reject your will! For all that happens, happens through you and by you."

Slowly, he sank to his knees again, still holding on to the altar. "I shall hurt you wherever I can. I shall thwart you wherever I have the chance. I shall destroy your tool that destroyed me. My sword shall not sleep in my hand ere the Revolution and all its spawns are no more! That I swear – upon Nunnally's memory!"

Then he collapsed before the Lord's table, shaken by violent sobs.

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Please review.


	4. The Mountains

****In my defence, I have spent the last two weeks well - I have travelled to Venice for (ahem) research, read _A Song of Ice and Fire _books 1 to 5 (Jaime x Cersei FTW), and played lots and lots of Crusader Kings II. It's amazing when castrating and blinding prisoners is the _kindest _way to maintain power.

In this chapter, I have bootchered t' Yorkshire dialect t' stand in for Tamaki's Catalan dialect. You should get the gist. If there are any Yorkshiremen on the internet, feel free to correct me in that hilarious accent of yours. (I should have gone for Scots, which is even funnier). And no, this is not going to be Todo x Nunnally.

A word on names. When I have CG characters with inappropriate (that is, Japanese or ridiculous Britannian ones) names, I still retain them. Immortals - C.C. and V.V. - get proper names, Cecilia Cuzzoni and Victor Valery, respectively. It is harder for Japanese names. The highwaymen use no surnames, and the first names they use are properly _noms de guerre_ (think Lenin, Stalin, etc) and not necessarily their own. I have adopted transliterations which might seem unusual (Todo and Ogi instead of Tohdoh and Ohgi or Toudou and Ougi), but are just as correct in representing the Japanese long o vowel and seem more Spanish than the others.

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**The Mountains**

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_Catalonia, March 1792_

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The soft rocking movements of her mount soothed her. A sweet lure – to sleep. She wished she could. Just for a moment. A minute. Not long. Just … sleep. She did not dare.

She could barely see the rest of the party through the curtain of her own hair. Long, dirty and dull strains hand loosely down in front of her lowered eyes, tinting all she could see light brown. There was no need to hide her hair under a hat any more, nor would she. Her brother had used to send away her servants to brush her hair himself, and had told her that she should wear it openly. That he loved her hair too much to see it hidden under a fashionable wig. She had done him the favour.

Neither, though, did she dare lift her head. She was too afraid one of the riders would notice her if she did. She was too afraid of what might be the consequences.

Instead, she looked down at her mount's neck. Sturdy and without any particular breeding, the bay gelding was closer to a plowhorse than to her Nemo, lacking all grace or glamour. It did its job, though.

She did not hold the reins herself. The man in the greatcoat had given her his horse and now was riding silently beside her, holding Nemo's reins with one hand and his own horse's with the other. Nunnally's arms were crossed in front of her, as if to hug herself.

Finally, the gelding came to a halt. A rough hand closed around her wrist, another around her shoulder and helped her down. Seated her on what appeared to be a slab of stone. A cold breeze made her shiver.

"Stay here," Todo – the man in the greatcoat – told her, briefly resting his large hand on her shoulder, then turned and bellowed a command. Not that it was necessary – even if she could, she wouldn't have left. It would have been pointless to do so …

Slowly, cautiously, as if someone would attack her were she noticed, she raised her head and looked around.

The first thing she noted were the mountaintops. If there was anything else around her, she barely noticed them. White they were, so pure and bright it hurt her eyes, then – below – a light grey spotted dark, then finally at their bases a dark green, all before a cloudless sky of brilliant blue. Also, they were huge. She had seen the mountains on the way north, of course, but they had travelled along the Mediterranean coast, where the Pyrenees were gentler. If those had been sleeping giants, the mountains she saw here were gods. Every single one of them seemed to her the scarred and rugged backs of titans, crawling back to Gaia's motherly bosom after their fall.

Then, she took note of her direct surroundings. She was seated on a mossy stone slab the size of her soft bed at home. Her feet dangled above the ground. The slab was located at the very edge of a clearing, or more a tiny valley, with deep pine woods on two sides, a rough, jagged cliff just behind her and a small emerald mountain lake to the fourth. Birdsong and the sound of the wind in the trees filled the air.

Some of Todo's men had begun to set up a large campfire in the centre of the valley. Others had erected half a dozen simple tents in a semi-circle around the fire, barely more than rectangular plains of heavy, oiled cloth spanned over two poles and fixed with four wooden stakes.

There were about two dozen men, though she knew some of them had gone deeper into the forest to fetch firewood. All of them were large, scruffy, and probably the most disreputable-looking people she had ever seen, with the sole exception of some criminals she had seen garotted in Cadiz. Many of them sported unkempt beards and their own long hair. Their faces had something harsh and dogged to them. Their clothes were dirty, but robust, and most wore dusters. All were armed.

And not merely the smallswords any gentleman would wear on a daily basis. Rather, they wore bandoleers with an assortment of daggers and pistols. Nunnally held her breath.

Compared to his men, Todo looked a fine gentleman. His greying black hair was trimmed short, his chin clean-shaven. She supposed he was in his late forties. He was still scowling, but Nunnally was beginning to think that he had no other expression.. Everything about him seemed harsh and hard, from his sharp cheek- and jawbones to his thick, slanted eyebrows. He wore what appeared to be the remains of an old military uniform – a dark blue coat with red facings and silver lining, buff waistcoat and trousers, black buckskin boots and a light grey greatcoat. He carried an old cavalry sabre and no further weapons.

It was obvious that he was the leader. Whatever he told them, they would do. When he spoke to them, they respectfully heeded his words. He didn't have to shout or threaten.

And he was approaching her. She quickly lowered her gaze as Todo knelt before her, still scowling. There was a long moment of silence. She supposed she should say something, but what? It would have been pointless. All she could say seemed trivial.

"What is your name, señora?," Todo asked.

She gulped and unsuccessfully tried to look up at him. Last time someone had asked for their names … but what did it matter now? She was prepared to die, even willing. _Go on, _her brother told her, whispering softly in her ear. _You have naught to fear. _And she had naught to fear, and would go on. Still, the first time she told Todo her name came out too quiet, and she had to repeat it. "Nunnally de Lamperouge," she whispered again, this time a little louder.

She noted that neither her nor, before, her brother had used their father's name. By right, she should have called herself Nunnally Zapata de San Luis y de Lamperouge, but where was the sense in that? Knowing their father, he had disowned them the moment they had run away. They had always been more their mother's children than their father's. It would only befit them to break with that past.

Breaking with the past. It sounded far simpler than it was. For that was the very same past she had shared with her brother, when he had _lived_, and not just as a tender memory inside of her. Omitting her father's surname was nothing, not truly, she told herself.

Todo grimly nodded. "Your accent … Andalusian, right?" She nodded. There was a long pause, but Nunnally didn't feel the need to expand on that issue. Finally, Todo said, "You are far from home. Will you tell me what ill fortunes you encountered on your journey and where you were bound, señora?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "I'd … I'd rather not," she whispered. "It doesn't matter, anyway …"

Todo's scowl deepened. "Well … I suppose you have family in Andalusia, then? Your father?"

Nunnally looked up at the man kneeling before her and blankly stared at him. "I … I do have a father," she then said, adding, quieter: "I guess."

There was yet another pause. She could feel that Todo was dissatisfied with her response. Blankly she stared at him, watching him sigh and rub his temples. "I don't suppose he'll pay, then …," he murmured, then rose to his feet. "Tell me true," he said. "Will your father ransom you?"

Nunnally looked up at him, then shook her head.

And then Todo explained to her just who exactly he and his men were. She wasn't surprised, not particularly. If she still had it in her to be surprised. It should have been obvious from the men's looks and behaviour. She was not afraid, either – she had naught to fear.

They were men of the road. Their trades were robbery and demands for ransom. They hid in the inaccessible valleys of the Pyrenees, moving to another place every day, and watched the passes for wealthy targets. Nunnally almost had to laugh. _Look at me, brother, _she thought, _you are barely gone and I am already keeping company with highwaymen._ If only she cared. She could hear Lelouch inside of her, chuckling lightly.

"I believe you," Todo declared. "If your father will not ransom you, you are of no use to us. Neither, though, can we let you go just now. We found you on one of our hidden passes, not on the road. Your horse had wandered off, I suppose. If we set you free, there's always a chance you reveal it to the authorities. That is a risk I am not willing to take. You will have to stay with us until we are in Andalusia again. And that could take some time."

Without hesitation, she nodded. He frowned. "You take this rather lightly."

"I was begging you for the gift of mercy moments ago," she finally whispered. "It does not matter to me."

Scowling, Todo turned to leave, but in a fit of curiosity she grasped for his greatcoat's folds. She blushed when he looked back at her. "Are … are you a gentleman, señor?," she quietly asked. "I mean … you're much kinder than I expected a highwayman to be …"

Todo's scowl seemed to deepen still. "A man needs not be gently born to know his manners," he said. "A man needs not be raised in a palace and bear arms to have a heart." Then he left.

The highwayman reminded her of her brother, in a way. He was much sterner than him, much more dangerous, as well, she supposed. But he had the same protective air around him, the same sort of begrudging kindness.

She spent the rest of the day watching the highwaymen. Though it was rather chilly, it was still midday and the sun was burning down on the tiny valley, so some of the men had withdrawn into the shadows of their tents. Most had stayed outside, though, sitting by the campfires or tending to their horses. She suspected they would have ridden all day if not for her, and she was grateful for Todo's decision to make camp this early.

The men's discussions seemed never to stray far from her, judging from the curious and suspicious glances they gave her. _They love you not, _Lelouch noted. _They fear you will betray them and, if not, make them violable. _She saw Todo walking between the campfires, quietly talking to each of his men. She wondered what he was saying. _He's trying to convince them to take you on, _Lelouch suggested. It made a lot of sense. She would be a load for the highwaymen, she figured, and quite probably a threat.

Nunnally would have to dissuade their doubts, which would remain even with Todo's help. She would have to rely on these men to get home, so she he had better ease their trouble if she would return to Cadiz …

_Have you forgotten already?_, her brother scolded her. She flinched at his reminder and lowered her gaze, blushing. She had not … she had sworn an oath to avenge her brother, protect the weak and destroy the strong.

_Then keep it._

I cannot, she thought. It was a stupid oath. She was just a little girl who couldn't even help herself – how, then, was she supposed to keep her oath?

Her brother had no answer to that question. _Keep it,_ he repeated.

Nunnally could feel tears running down her cheeks. She would, of course she would. She had sworn it over her brother's warm corpse and sealed it with a kiss. There would be a way, somewhere. Somehow.

She spent the rest of the day watching the highwaymen. There was not much to see. They sat around their fires, drank cheap brandywine from dirty bottles, let their water against one of the trees and returned to their fires to drink. Soon they were telling bawdy tales and laughing loudly at their own jokes. Todo was sitting separately with another man, apparently still talking about her, though the other man's glances to her had become infrequent. The man had a solemn look on his face, which in turn looked so normal that she would be hard-pressed to further describe it. Full dark hair and sideburns, brown eyes. From the way the others had behaved around him, his word seemed to be well-respected, though less so than Todo's. That would also explain why Todo was taking his time to talk with him.

When the sun set, bathing the vale in radiant orange light, the two men finally seemed to have come to an agreement and rose. Todo went to saddle his horse and the plain, solemn man approached her. She stared at him and he startled. For a moment she was confused, then she blushed and averted her gaze.

"Ah …," he began, rubbing his neck, "I'm Ogi." Pause. "How about you'll join us by the fire? You must be freezing … and, er, you should eat a bite."

She was wary about joining the men. Too well she remembered the night before. _Trust no one, _her brother told her. _Be careful. _In truth, she would have preferred to remain where she was – seated on her mossy slab of stone, beyond the light of the fires. She was afraid – there was a dark premonition clutching her heart and lungs. But perhaps it was just a shadow still lingering, and she could not deny her stomach was growling. Hence, she nodded at Ogi and rose.

He led her to one of the campfires and bid the other men move to make room for her to sit. She murmured a word of thanks and did her best not to be noticed by the men. Someone handed her a greasy _botifarra _sausage and some bread. She gorged it, starved, licked the grease off her fingers, then drank a few hesitant mouthfuls of the men's brandywine and almost threw up. It was fire in her mouth and throat, burning her up from the inside, tasted like a dead rat and left her dizzy and disorientated. The men laughed at her.

She felt like puking, but she was not about to give the men more reason for laughter. There were a good dozen seated on the ground around the fire. Ogi sat across from her. Most of the men seemed to be drunk, the one to her very left most of all. A tall man with shaggy chestnut hair, chin-beard and stubbles, there was a wolfish quality to him. He jeered the loudest at every jape his companions made, made the bawdiest jests, and leered at her more often than the other men combined.

Nunnally drew her coat closer, shivering even in the fire's warmth. She remembered well the deep blue pupil of the bloodshot eye that had stared at her. She eyed the man's hip: he had removed his sword and guns, but still had the knife he had cut his meat with. Whom was she fooling? She had no hopes of overwhelming him, no more than she had had last night.

Perhaps all she could do was endure it.

She wanted to cry, but no tears would come as she stared into the fire. _I can't, brother_, she thought, _I'm sorry, I can't keep my oath_ … there came no reply.

She would return to Cadiz, should Todo stay true to his word. She would beg her father for his forgiveness and be a good, obedient daughter for once. Marry a the son of an acquaintance of his, if any would still take her.

And her oath? To guard the weak and fight the strong, to keep brothers' lifes and sisters' honour … to destroy these colours and all who bore them … a mad fever dream, no more.

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the man next to her put the bottle of brandywine in his hand down. Staring at her from dark eyes dull with drunkenness, he wiped his mouth with his dirty coat's sleeve. "And tha'?," he scoffed at her, his words slurring. Nunnally winced and tried to ignore him. "Tha' ain't not drinking," the man said, then repeated it louder. There was a pause. "They say," he carefully pronounced, or at least attempted to do so, "tha're some 'ighborn lady … tha' too good to drink wi' oos, reet?" Someone chuckled.

Nunnally continued to stare into the fire, trying to ignore him. Beneath her unfazed façade, however, she was struggling even to breathe – there seemed to be a cold hand around her throat, slowly tightening its iron grip –

"Won't even answer oos questions, eh?," he continued. He spoke Catalan dialect, thickened still by the brandywine, she noticed, and so did the other men. The reason she had not noticed until now was that Todo had spoken accent-free Castilian, far closer to her own dialect. The strange pronunciations frightened her.

The man spat, then turned back at her. "Tha' can act all cold," he snarled, "boot I guess when tha're naked thi' twat look joost like any other bitch's! 'ow 'boot tha' show oos some? Tha've nowt to 'ide, reet?"

"Stop it, Tamaki," said one of the others; she couldn't see who it was. His speech was Catalan as well, though not slurred by drink. "You see 'ow frightened t' girl is."

But it was too late. The man had already pushed her roughly to the ground and was now struggling with the buttons of her waistcoat.

Nunnally screamed.

The ground beneath her was earthy and hard. The man was breathing hardly, grunting gibberish all the while. His breath stank of alcohol.

She screamed and screamed for what seemed like an eternity, but was less than a second. Her left hand reached for the rapier at her side, but the man's fumbling hand grabbed her wrist. She saw something flash up in the corner of her right eye and reached for it. Before she knew what had happened, she held the man's knife in hand.

She roared.

From the ground, she threw herself against the men over her, throwing him to the ground. At once she was straddling him. She roared. She raised the knife high above her head. She roared.

A rough hand closed around her wrist. "Enough," one of the men said, "I think he's leaned his lesson."

Tamaki was staring up at her from frightened, but now clear eyes. The short fight had washed away his drunkenness like a bucket of ice water.

"Let go of me," she whispered without averting her eyes from the craven creature below her. The man clutching her wrist hesitated, but let go when she repeated her demand, louder. She lowered the knife's point to Tamaki's left cheek, staring into his eyes. Her hand around the weapon's hilt tightened. Then, she quickly drew the sharp point over his cheek, from nose to ear, just enough to draw blood and leave a scar. "Don't forget it," she whispered.

The men behind her drew her to her feet. Her hand closed around the reassuring hilt of her rapier. She still held the knife in her other hand.

Tamaki rolled over on his side and retched. She took a few steps back from him as the others broke into truly Homeric laughter.

_Well done, _said her brother. Todo stood behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Well done," he echoed, whispering into her ear. "That was long overdue." She smiled.

No, she thought. She was not as helpless as she had thought. There was a world between overwhelming a drunken man and destroying a revolution, but for once, she felt as if it was indeed possible, as if everything was possible. _I will keep my oath, brother, _she swore,_ I will keep it. Our oath. _For whence had that new-found strength come, if not her brother? They were one, one body, one mind. If she lived, so did her brother; and if Lelouch was dead, why, so was she. But whatever was dead may never die, and what may not die would rise again, stronger.

She would not go to Cadiz, never again. She would stay and fight. She would watch, and learn, and when the time was ripe, she would lead these men against the Revolution and watch cockades burn and flags drenched in blood.

Only when Tamaki staggered to his feet, his face flushed red, now in embarrassment, with his companions still laughing at him and blood dripping from the cut on his cheek, and glared at her from cold, furious eyes, did she realise that she had made an enemy.

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Please review.


	5. Acqua Alta

Need I mention that Venice is just about the most beautiful city in the world (if you erase all the tourists)? I have visited most of the places I have mentioned, including the Teatro La Fenice and Ca' Rezzonico. And the canals, duh. So, the portrayal should be somewhat accurate.**  
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Minor notes on chronology, war begins on April 20, 1792, with France declaring war on Austria (the Archduke of Austria, mind you, also was King of Bohemia and Hungary and Holy Roman Emperor; at the time the only Emperor in Europe, except for the Tsar. Hence, when I refer to "imperial" armies or "the Emperor's coat", I mean Austria.) A week later, Prussia joins the war on Austria's side. From then on, everything goes downhill.

One Castilian foot is 278.6 millimetres or 27.86 centimetres or 0.2789 metres. I'm using it instead of US feet or metres because Lelouch and Nunnally would think in the units they grew up with.

Venice is awesome turned stone. It was also horribly decadent for much of its later history, and famous for its courtesans (basically, geishas).

Rolo's house is in the sestieri of Dorsoduro, on the main island, on the right side of the Canal Grande. I used the Palazzo Grimani di San Luca for inspiration, a picture can be found on Wikipedia.

It is perfectly natural for two friends in 18th century Europe to address each other by their last names. Scott famously offered his fellow explorer to call him by his first name only after having to share a sleeping bag on their Antarctic exploration for six weeks.

That should be it. This chapter was the work of two days - I think one notices -; the other time since the last update has been spent avoiding to fill stupid questionnaires from University College London, fleshing out the second part of What We Cling To (I've arrived at 1813 by now) and thinking that actually a new chapter of The First Servant is in line.

**Note: **as I noticed when reading samxtham's review (thanks a load), I messed up horribly. As he noticed, Rolo cannot have been born in 1777 and completed his education at St. Andrews and Oxford. While, in the Middle Ages, the youngest scholars regularly were around eleven, having been more like a modern grammar school, and to this day there is no lower age bound (making for some headlines of ten-year-olds getting Firsts at Oxford, mostly in Maths). However, Rolo would most likely have finished his studies at around 21, had he remained in England. Certainly not at 15. Now, it was usual that Grand Tourists made for their educational tour of Europe only around that age (often only after having graduated from either of the two universities), but we can safely assume that financial concerns played a role in funding only one Tour for four sons instead of four Tours for one son each. The mistake has been edited, meaning that Rolo now has only just started at St. Andrews, which is not that unlikely. Thanks a lot, samxtham, especially because you're spot-on otherwise.

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**Acqua Alta**

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_Venice, April 1792_

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He raised his hand to shield his eyes against the glaring light as the boat glided across the calm turquoise waters of the Lagoon. In some distance he could spy the city – brilliant white that made his eyes hurt, bright red roofs, black boats as small as ants moving in the radiant sea. The boat was hit by a wave and rocked a little, and Lelouch held on to the railing.

He had taken the priest's advice to heart and found a merchantman called _Olympe _that was to carry a load of wine and hardwood from Narbonne to Genoa, and from there it would have been simple to find passage to Venice. The problem being that he lacked the coin.

The priest had given him a hundred French livre, about half heavy, golden Louises, the rest in banknotes. However, the captain of the _Olympe _had insisted on being paid in gold, and, once arrived in Genoa, he had realised that his banknotes where worthless.

His remaining gold had barely been enough to buy a horse, coarser than anything he had ever ridden, but it had carried him swift enough through the duchies of Parma and Mantua into Venetian territory. For a few days, he had played with the idea of riding to Milan, which was under Austrian rule, and join the Imperial and Royal Army there. However, he would need money to buy a commission, and figured he'd have more chances if he went directly to Vienna and caught the eye of some influential noble. Nevertheless –

He was confident enough in his skills, but what would he have to do to gain a position that enabled him to fight the Revolution, as he had vowed? He could, perhaps, walk up to the Ministry of War and ask for a commission, but most likely people would laugh at him and throw him out. He could enrol as a common soldier, but opportunities for advancement were flimsy at best and non-existent at worst. What remained was to try and gain a footing in Viennese society, he supposed. It was futile as his other possibilities, but he would try.

At least, that had been his plan – until he had reached the shores of the Venetian Lagoon. He did not know what had, in the end, forced him to realise the futility of his hopes – had it been the salty, hot air that smelled like the orient that had thrown them in his face and laughed at him?

What better place was there to forget one's sorrows, drown them in the warm turquoise waters of the canals, than Venice? The waves softly rocked the boat. In the distance, the city was gleaming radiant white. _Forgive me, Nunnally_.

Lelouch felt an awkward sting in his back, just between his shoulders. Something told him he was being watched. He turned around, the other passenger blushed and averted his eyes. A young gentleman, not older than himself, by the looks of it. The slender boy wore a double-breasted dark purple coat and breeches, silk stockings and a light grey waistcoat with fine purple stripes. His neckband was tied in an elaborate stock; he wore a sword by his side, but no hat. Under light brown locks, two glossy lilac eyes were bashfully lowered, which added to the gentle beauty of the youth's face, as did his small nose, faintly smiling lips and round chin.

Lelouch hadn't gotten his name, and frankly, he didn't care much. The boy had gotten on the boat with him, in the town of Mestre at the shores of the Lagoon, and spent much of the way silently staring at him. Lelouch didn't mind. In fact, the boy almost looked a little like Nunnally, what with his large lilac eyes and dark blonde head of curls. Holding on to the railing, he looked back out at the city.

The boat was slowly moving closer to the city, and had entered a wide canal, at least seven hundred Castilian feet across, between what appeared to be two long, narrow islands, both tightly settled. Large warehouses and offices of red brick stood directly by the waterfront, with only narrow gaps between them. To their left, from the ocean of houses rose many a church's bell tower or dome, from their tops, angels and saints guarded the Queen of the Lagoon and its people, proud and powerful as they were.

The canal itself was populated by veritable swarms of dozens of slender black gondolas, each rowed by two men, many with small cabins. Through the blinds he could see dark silhouettes inside. Shallow rafts, heavily loaded with cloths and spices and wondrous things, proud galleys oared by scores of citizens of the Most Serene Republic with the Lion of St. Mark on their banners glided across the waters, large merchantmen, gigantic beside the sleek black gondolas and their own boat, moved through the canal like tardy giants, carrying goods from distant shores.

Lelouch found himself gaping. Though he had grown up in the city that was the door to the Spanish empire, he had never seen anything like this. The ships were smaller than at home, he realised, but the white marble of the churches glistening in the sun, the polished wood of the black fish reflected the buildings by the waterfront, the banners of St. Mark fluttered in the wind. The air smelt unlike anything he had ever smelt, of incense and saffron and pepper and spices yet unknown, of wood and salt and silk and a glorious past. The city was ringing with the distant noises of thousands of voices, arguing, trading, laughing, singing, with the splash of the galleys' oars and the creaking of wooden ships. It was hot, and yet a gentle breeze caressed his skin and hair, making it pleasantly warm.

"Beautiful, isn't it?," he heard a quiet voice ask and turned around. He hadn't expected the boy to speak, but now he had stepped to his side. He spoke Italian with an accent that Lelouch supposed was that of an Englishman, but not quite, Scottish, perhaps. His voice was a clear tenor, if not countertenor. A faint smile adorned his pretty white face.

Lelouch nodded. The boy reached out his hand and Lelouch briefly shook it. "I'm … I'm Rolo. Rolo Haliburton. That, is, actually Robert, but, you know …," he said, blushing again.

"… Lelouch Lamperouge," he curtly replied after a pause. He was in no mood to talk to this boy.

"Lelouch Lamperouge …," Haliburton repeated, as if he were trying to remind himself of the name, carefully pronouncing every syllable. "That's a pretty name. Is this your first time in Venice? You're from Spain, right? I mean, you sound like you are …" He broke off.

When Lelouch affirmed both questions, Haliburton's face lightened up. "Um … I could show you the city then. Where are you staying?"

Lelouch shrugged and looked out at the canal again. "I don't really know yet … and it seems I'm almost out of money, too, so I suppose that makes the choice easier, if not more bearable."

"The Republic assigns a guardian to every foreign visitor to make sure they aren't cheated out of their money," Haliburton explained. "However, those guardians tend to lead to you awful inns … so … you could stay with me? I … I've got a house near the Academy, and I only use a quarter of it …" He broke off.

Lelouch was about to turn him down on the offer.

A year, indeed, a month ago, he would not even have considered the boy's offer. Too queer seemed the manner of his approach, too suspicious was he of his purposes. He'd have Nunnally to consider, as well, and there was something else that he couldn't exactly put his finger on: the mere thought of having to rely on this boy's help would have repulsed and insulted him.

But Nunnally was taken from him, and so was his pride. No matter how much he revelled in dreams of vengeance, he was too weak to do anything about it. He had not even been able to defend his sister.

And so, he accepted Haliburton's offer.

To their right, after a Baroque domed church all in white marble, the long island came to an abrupt end. But in front of them, slightly to the left, appeared a wide quay, a tall belfry, its walls red brick, its roof bronze, with the Lion of St. Mark in white marble below a clock on all four sides. By the quay docked dozens of gondolas and barges, some big, some small, all richly decorated. On the square behind the quay, Lelouch could spy a massive white building – the lowermost story open colonnades, the second a Gothic loggia going all around the building, the third and uppermost however massive with few, vast windows and balconies regularly embedded into the blinding white walls. "The Palazzo ducale," Haliburton explained, "That is, the Doge's Palace. The centre of power of the entire Republic. Just behind it is St. Mark's Basilica. They call it the 'church of gold'. You should really see it, it's truly amazing …"

And so Haliburton prattled on, cheerfully relating this anecdote and that interesting detail, pointing out this church or that palace and generally being very pleasant company. To be true, he _was_ pleasant company, and even though Lelouch didn't say much as the boat entered the Grand Canal. It was just that he wouldn't have minded being alone. Still, he supposed he owed the boy some gratitude.

"There … that's where I live," Haliburton said, pointing at a building by the waterfront. Once again, Lelouch found himself gaping. Neither his father's townhouse nor his estates had been particularly small, if run-down, but this was a true palazzo. It was situated on the bank of the Grand Canal, a beautiful waterway two hundred Castilian feet across, with splendorous façades of Venice's nobility to either side, each with their own little landing place for the omnipresent swarms of sleek black gondolas. The façade was three storeys of white marble, the lowermost level featuring a tall triumphal arch, flanked by two smaller arches, all leading inside to the atrium, with ten square Ionic half-columns, five to each side, in two pairs and one single. The piano nobile and the living quarters above it were very similar, tall windows in round arches, with the same order of columns as the ground floor. It was massive, yet light, and looked like money turned stone.

Perhaps he had underestimated Haliburton.

Light-footed, the boy jumped out of the boat on the wooden planks of the landing and held out his hand for Lelouch to follow. The other boy got out his purse and threw the boatmen a few coppers. They entered the building through the centre arch. The moment they stepped into the shadow of the atrium, it grew cooler and quieter. The gentle rippling of a fountain somewhere provided a soothing background noise.

A door opened to their right, and a hoary man in his sixties in dark green breeches and waistcoat stepped out. He halted when he noticed them, then frowned and approached them. "Welcome home, sir," he greeted Haliburton, speaking English, but continued staring at Lelouch. Undaunted, he stared back.

Haliburton didn't seem to notice. "That is Mr Morrison," he said, "my butler. I'm sorry, I don't have much staff, only half a dozen altogether." Turning to the butler, he added: "This is Mr Lamperouge from Spain. He shall stay as our guest for a while."

There was a short, strained pause. Then, Morrison indicated a curt bow. "Of course, sir. I shall have the red suite prepared. Will sirs require dinner?"

"Yes. Something light, I suppose." They continued to discuss some minor detail, Morrison ignoring Lelouch all the while, then Rolo led him up into the piano nobile, the elaborate first storey containing the grandest rooms. "I'm sorry for that," Haliburton told him as they ascended the wide open staircase at the back of the atrium, "Morrison usually is a most kindly man. He has been with my family for a good forty years, having served my father and his father before him as valet. I cannot tell why he is acting like this."

At the top of the stairs was a small ballroom, now empty, with mirrors on its walls and frescoes on the ceiling. They quickly walked through it, their shoes loudly clicking on the cold marble floor, and, through the door to the right, entered the salon behind it. They followed a delicately furnished, elegant set of rooms, then Haliburton opened a carved oaken door to him. Behind was a small salon, furnished all in red and ebony. There were elaborate Baroque armchairs, their legs and armrests carved in the shape of chained Moors and trees. A bookshelf held part of Haliburton's library. The walls were papered crimson with gold details and hung with gold-framed paintings that bore proof of their owner's taste and expertise. Windows went out to the Grand Canal and a blazing fire had been lighted in the fireplace.

Haliburton stepped inside behind him. "Ah … your bedroom's the door to the left. There's a cabinet, as well. You're travelling without any luggage?"

Lelouch nodded. "I shall be fine. Thank you for your hospitality, sir." There was an awkward pause. "If you don't mind … I'd like to have a moment alone. It was a … long and eventful journey. I shall be at your disposal afterwards."

Haliburton hesitated. "Certainly," he then said. "Make yourself at home." He left the salon and closed the door behind him.

Slowly, Lelouch stepped into the suite's bedroom. Red and ebony here as well, a bed, a closet, mirror and commode. He found the cabinet – the china sink was already filled and the water still warm. Lelouch leaned in and slowly washed the dust of the road off his face, then looked up at himself in the mirror.

He had paled, he noticed, though he had spent virtually all of the last month riding around the Mediterranean. His eyes were more cavernous than he remembered, his cheeks more hollow. His once burning purple eyes dull and dead.

Sighing, he dipped his hands into the water. As the warm water ran down his face, it took with it the dust, but not the weariness. _Forgive me, Nunnally_.

* * *

Mr Robert Haliburton was pleasant company, without a doubt. Ever considerate, witty and engaging, he had shown him the magnificent gold mosaics of St. Mark's Basilica and told him all about the secrets of the building and the mosaic, from the saint's bones beneath the high altar to the story of his body being brought to Venice through trickery and cunning.

Haliburton had insisted to take Lelouch to the finest tailors of the city and, at his own cost, equip him with a complete new wardrobe according to the latest fashions. "No friend of mine shall go clothed like a beggar," he had said. Lelouch had the faint idea that his father would have felt gravely insulted.

They had bribed officials to ascend the hundreds of stairs of the Campanile, the belfry of St. Mark's, and been rewarded with a stunning sunrise over the Lagoon. They had spent hours in the Academy, conversing with artists and talking about the paintings of the great masters. Lelouch had listened to countless concerts and operas in the numerous theatres and concert halls and taken the Holy Eucharist in dozens of the churches of the city. They had watched processions of the Signoria and rooted for one boat or another in the regular regattas.

They had explored the maze of canals in Haliburton's gondola and sought for rare books and artworks in antiquaries all over the Lagoon. They had enjoyed themselves at parties, balls and salons both literary and political, frequented the world-famous brothels (or so had Lelouch) and laughed at the antics of several _commedia dell'arte _troupes. They had drunken Turkic coffee and smoked Chinese opium.

There was an incredible gravity to everything there was. When their gondola glided across the waters of a narrow canal, it was hard to even keep ones eyes open, much less to speak. The air was fragrant with this gravity, as if it were sensible. Every word seemed profound and important, and, hence, nothing was important any more, everything was light. To watch an execution between the pillars of St. Mark and St. Theodore was as delightful as any masque in the palazzi of the nobility.

Once in a while, Lelouch would say "I have to go. I cannot stay much longer," and every time Haliburton would nod with a sad smile and say, "If that is your wish. But stay just for a few days, for this festival or that party …" And in the end, Lelouch would always stay, and every time he would ask Nunnally for the forgiveness that never came.

With every day, he felt himself grow more and more languid. Nothing seemed to matter any more, or, when it did, he could not bring himself to put aside the rare account of the life of Emperor Alexius I, to turn his eyes off the stunning landscape by Canaletto, to open his eyes and close his ears to the Vivaldi concerto, to ignore the endeavours of the little devil of a whore in front of him, to take off his mask and scream.

The Venetians were a people both unique and common. They were unique in their sharp sarcastic wit, their enormous wealth and their patriotic pride in their Republic's glorious past as the power whose fleets forced emperors, popes and sultans in their knees and amassed riches else unknown to man. Testament to their pride bore the magnificent palaces and churches that had grown all other the city, all in blatant breach of at least a dozen laws against the exhibition of luxuries. There was one ancient house by the Grand Canal that had, once, in the 15th Century, been covered with gold all over, but now it was sheer white marble and threatening to have its ground floor submerged by the waters. Testament to their decadence bore the hundreds of younger and bastard children of the richest nobles, who had settled around the church of San Barnaba and spent their days making a living by selling their vote in the Grand Council to the highest bidder and their nights stalking the taverns. They were beautiful and dreadful at the same time, sweet and nauseating, and the most melancholic people he had ever met.

They, too, felt the gravity. He had heard people talk about the state of the Republic in hushed voices, and understood they were grievously worried about the decline of their nation. Where once the Arsenal had produced an entire war galley in a single day and tens of thousands had laboured to preserve naval and mercantile might over the Mediterranean, a few hundred artisans still built gondolas and small boats. Where once the Republic could assemble a war fleet of five hundred sails in a manner of weeks, the Lagoon was now guarded by four galleys and seven galliots, only two of which were still seaworthy. Where once the Republic has monopolised trade with the far Orient, only few goods form India and China were still traded on the Rialto. Where once Venice's navy had forced every ship trading in the Adriatic Sea to first offer their goods in the _Serenissima_, the Papal States, Naples, Austria and Turkey now laughed at their pretences.

When the news came that France had declared war on Austria and Prussia, and shortly afterwards Britain, Spain, Portugal, Sardinia, Naples and the Netherlands, it barely raised a brow. Venice was neutral. It had been for two centuries. Who would dare wake the lion of St. Mark?

Haliburton was more of a mystery. Else open and eloquent, he grew silent and sulky whenever asked about his past. In the end, Lelouch had to make some subtle inquiries with the servants to find out about his host. The butler, Morrison, wouldn't speak about his master, but his wife, the housekeeper, proved more talkative.

Robert "Rolo" Haliburton had been born in 1777 on his father's ancestral estate in Ayrshire, Scotland, the youngest of five sons of a Lord of Parliament. He had come to Venice as a grand tourist despite still being in education at St. Mary's College of the University of St. Andrews, accompanied by three of his older brothers, Lady Haliburton and several servants. From then on, the servants would talk no more, forcing him to confront Haliburton himself. That had been on Good Friday, just after dinner, with his host under the influence of one-and-a-half bottles of Friulian Refosco.

Haliburton's answer had, consequently, been somewhat vague. By the end of the evening, however, Lelouch had found out the following: for some reason he refused to reveal, it had been agreed that he should never return to Scotland from his travels. Hence, Lady Haliburton had bought this palazzo for her youngest son and left him with a pair of ageing, but loyal servants and enough money to live a luxurious life even by Venetian standards and told him that there was no place in Britain for people like him. Lelouch had not been able to find out if Rolo Haliburton had even protested.

He had tried to find out what crime could have convinced his own mother to forsake him, but all who could have known refused to tell him and in the end he gave up. In turn, Haliburton never pressed him when he refused to talk about his own past. The Venetians and other foreigners Haliburton had introduced him to never seemed to consider him more than just another foreign eccentric come to enjoy life in their city. He had never seen Haliburton anything but engaging and charming and figured he had nothing to fear as long as he had his sword.

When, on the 22nd of April, the news of the outbreak of war had come, and a week later they knew that Prussia had joined on Austria's side, Lelouch had once again voiced his wish to leave. "I shall go to Vienna," he had said over the third course of dinner a week later, "and take the Emperor's coat. I shall fight the French, come what may."

Once again Haliburton had looked up at him from sad, forlorn eyes. "I understand," he had said. "And is there no way I can convince you otherwise? … I see. But, Mr Lamperouge, for the friendship you bear me, grant me these two wishes: firstly, let me pay for your commission and your equipment. It does not befit a gentleman such as you to serve in the rank and file, and though you may have encountered great misfortunes, that does not change your birth and upbringing."

But this time, Lelouch had turned him down. "I can and will not accept that, sir," he had simply said and drunk a sip of wine. "I have already by far overtaxed your generosity."

At this, Haliburton had sighed. "Then at least do me a favour back. Do not leave at once. Stay awhile. Just … just until Wednesday the 16th. That is when the new opera house is to open. _Teatro_ _La Fenice_, they call it. The Phoenix, because it rose from the ashes anew, greater and more splendid. I have seen the plans – it is to be the most beautiful theatre in Italy, if not all Europe. On the 16th, they will open with the first staging of a new opera by Paisiello and Alessandro Pepoli, _I giuochi d'Agrigento_. All Venice will be there. It will be a wonderful evening to end your stay in the most beautiful of cities with."

Lelouch hesitated. Too often Haliburton had begged him to remain "just a few days longer". But he was right – he had seen the plans, as well. He did want to see it, and, in the end, had it not been music that had been his and Nunnally's incentive to flee Cadiz?

He hesitated. "Please," Haliburton added, quietly. "For the friendship you bear me."

Then, Lelouch nodded. _Forgive me,_ _Nunnally_.

* * *

Haliburton had kept his promise and Lelouch had kept his.

The opera house was every bit as beautiful as Haliburton had said. The landside foyer alone was stunning, with ceilings twenty feet above their heads and seven different kinds of polished marble in pillars and floor and walls, with rich stucco decorations where the walls meet the ceiling, and frescoes displaying allegorical figures. There was a lot of polished brass and gold, and the three huge chandeliers painted the entrance hall in a warm light. The canalside foyer was just as splendorous.

The theatre itself was no less stunning. It was the shape of a horseshoe and at least two hundred Castilian feet long and about three quarters as wide. High above their heads, there was a beautiful fresco of a blue sky, framed by gilded leaves, displaying the female personifications of Music, Drama and Lyric and a multitude of other allegorical figures. In the centre of that sky hung a huge crystal chandelier. Just before the stage with its heavy scarlet, gold-embroidered curtain, the ceiling was an intricate pattern of gilded leaves and branches, with a clock in its centre. Above the stage was a tiny golden figurine of a phoenix, which was also embroidered on the curtain.

There were four levels of boxes, all around the hall: in the Republic of Venice, there was no need for a royal or ducal box to be set aside. What struck him as brilliant was the continuous decoration of the boxes' balustrades with frescoes and gold details, instead of the more usual cassettes. Hundreds of golden candleholders illuminated the hall and made the abundant gold gleam mysteriously.

And, indeed, all Venice was there: as the floor and boxes filled, Lelouch recognised virtually everyone Haliburton had introduced him to during the past month, and they were only a tiny fraction of the audience. Shortly after curtain rose for the second act, His Serenity the Doge Ludovico Manin himself appeared in one of the boxes, dressed in cloth-of-gold and ermine, with the crimson and gold _corno_ on his head and accompanied by two members of the Minor Council in scarlet robes. Everyone in the theatre rose to greet him, but sat again as soon as he was seated and the orchestra continued playing.

The arrival of the Doge, an old and weary man, was nothing compared to the arrival of _her._

She was young – twenty, at most, Lelouch judged. As slender and willowy as Nunnally had been, with a small natural waist and small, well-formed breasts. Long arms and legs. Skin the colour of ivory. She stepped into her box with an amused smile on her lips, on the arm of her cavalier, and looked around the opera house, as if trying to make out acquaintances in the audience. Her open hair was the colour of fresh-cut grass, a bright, shiny green, and reached to her waist. Big amber eyes took in her surrounding, gleaming in the candlelight. Her gown was as scandalous as it was favourable, though he figured she would have looked just as good in the nude: the dress was sheer white muslin, had a tight-fitted bodice ending just below the bust, an impossibly low hemline, and a gathered, loose skirt. He could see what she what underwear she was wearing through the thin cloth, and it was not much. One firm white breast and even both of her slender shoulders were fully exposed to the audience's leering and gaping.

Nevertheless, it was obvious that there was far more to the young woman than a pretty whore – the moment she had entered her box, just above the entrance with the best view in the house, it had become obvious that she was in control of the men around her. The smile on her lips was almost smug in its self-assurance, her arm was loose draped around that of her cavalier – just firm enough to show that he would pay her bills, just loose enough to show that he was entirely disposable.

The most beautiful woman – if she could have been called that – he had ever seen had been his sister, but Nunnally's beauty was entirely different than that of this lady's. The woman who had just entered the box was a force of nature, a modern Phryne. For a moment, he thought her amber gaze met his, and his breath caught. The music seemed to stop, the chatter of the audience seemed to silence.

Her cavalier said something to her, and she laughed lightly. For a short moment, her eyes lit up and she bared two rows of gleaming white teeth. Even at this distance, he thought, he could hear her voice, over the sound of the orchestra and the noise of the audience. It was dark and rich and light all at the same time, and compared to it, the orchestra in the pit sounded like a swarm of crows and the singer onstage a screeching old hag.

Haliburton turned to see what Lelouch was looking at. Then he smiled and waved at the woman.

She noticed him and waved back.

Without averting his eyes off the wonder that was her, Lelouch whispered "Who is she …?"

Haliburton winced as if he had been stabbed in the back, and when he answered, he sounded gravely hurt. Lelouch barely even noticed it. "That is Cecilia Cuzzoni. She lives in that white monster of a palazzo, Ca' Rezzonico, only half a mile or so south of us. She's hosts a salon I attend once in a while."

"She is divine," Lelouch said, though the word seemed not quite to capture it.

"She should be," responded Haliburton, "She's just about the most expensive courtesan of the city."

* * *

Please review. Bonus points for whomever gets Rolo's background and motivations correctly, though I suppose I made it painfully obvious.


	6. The Rapier

Sorry for the delay and the brevity of the chapter - I spent almost all of last week in Oxford for an interview to further my application to read History at Merton College (which was absolutely awesome, both in terms of interviews and the time I spent there).**  
**

In positive news, I got a new book which goes on my list of sources, though it'll be more important during the second part (which is nearly completely planned out, BTW): _Armies of the Napoleonic Wars. An Illustrated History._, edited by Chris McNab and published by Osprey in Oxford.

I have to admit that all of this chapter's sole purpose is to set up an explanation of the flintlock mechanism and of providing some character development for Nunnally. It's hard to believe there is no trope for this.

**Review replies:**

** hagen: **Wait, what?

** samxtham: **Haha, thanks a lot. I'm glad you like it. Your hypothesis, though highly spoileriffic, is almost spot-on. The single instance where it isn't, which sadly skews much of the rest of it, is due to a mistake on my part: Rolo's education. I failed to do the maths, so thanks a lot for noting me on the improbability of him having completed his education at St. Andrew's and the marvellous Merton College at 15. This has been changed in the last chapter. I hope you'll read on! :D

* * *

**The Rapier**

* * *

_Catalonia, April 1792_

* * *

One morning, Nunnally awoke to find Todo sitting by her side.

Over the past days, she had taken to sleeping some distance away from the men. Last night, she had spread out her cloak next to the mossy rock slab. She could not tell why she refused to accept the protection of a tent, the warmth of the campfire, partake in the conversations of her captors. It would have been simpler that way, both for herself and the highwaymen. And yet, she could not help herself – by daylight, it was no problem, though she still kept to herself. But once the sun had set, a crippling fear and anxiety took hold of her whenever she so much as spoke to the men. What was she afraid of? Though she remained suspicious, she felt she had risen in the men's opinion after defending against Tamaki. Rationally, she had nought to be afraid of.

But she was; and hence, when she awoke to see Todo sitting by her sleeping place, she startled and sat up. It was not that she was afraid of Todo – of course it would be simple for him to overwhelm and force his will on her, but she was fairly certain he would do nothing of the sort. In any case, she would rather die fighting than let him – or anyone – have her. And still, she had to be wary.

For now, Todo ignored her. He was leaning on the rock slab, reading a small yellowed book. His expression was, as usual, stern and as if he were disgusted by something. The captain of highwaymen wore tan breeches and long black riding boots. He wore neither coat nor waistcoat, fully revealing his white shirt with full sleeves, gathers at the shoulders and cuffs, plain wristbands and a small turnover collar. His old cavalry sabre by his side.

"What are you reading …?," it escaped her lips.

Todo slowly looked up at her without changing his expression. "_Werther_," he then curtly said. "The young man we robbed yesterday carried it with him. He begged me to leave it to him, but I suppose by taking it I saved his life … In any case, it took me long enough to get my hands on a Spanish edition. And I don't see what the fuss is all about."

Nunnally had, of course, read _The Sorrows of Young Werther_, in the French translation of 1787, it being the modern classic that it was. She had loved it, but at the time it had seemed far too pessimistic to her – for, even if he had no way to win Lotte's love, there was no reason for Werther to take his own life. And so she only said: "It's … very romantic."

Todo scoffed bitterly, but said nothing.

For a moment, she waited for a reply. When none came, she stretched, yawned (she had discovered that nobody minded) and looked around the camp.

Only then did she notice the eerie silence. Normally, the highwaymen's camp was filled with the noise of snorting horses and talk and laughter of the men by the fire. Now, however, the only noises to be heard were birdsong in the air, the rustling of leaves and Todo skimming through _Werther_.

Which meant she was alone with the highwayman.

Nunnally gulped. All of a sudden, she was freezing in the warm April sun. Her breath quickened, her eyes widened. _Don't be afraid_, Lelouch chastised her. _You have nought to fear_. But, she knew, this one time he was wrong. Todo was strong and battle-hardened. Should he decide to – she reached for her mother's rapier beside her cloak, casually feeling for cold steel behind her back. It took her awfully long to find the old-fashioned sword. She could have sworn she had put it there, as she always did – ready to grasp the hilt and stab someone, as Lelouch had told her to … where was that damn rapier?

She could feel herself panicking. The rapier, four inches and four lines in length, one inch wide, with a basket hilt to protect the hand, two and a half Cadiz pounds of steel, was all she had to defend herself. _Where was it?_

Todo turned the page and, without looking up, said: "Don't bother looking." And he reached behind him to briefly lift up her sheathed rapier lying on the rock he was leaning on.

Nunnally gasped. He must have taken it while she slept … "Give … give it back …," she ground out, tumbling to her feet.

The highwayman threw her a brief glance. "Why should I?" He took the rapier and weighed it in his hands. "It's a fine sword, though old-fashioned."

"W…why … because it's mine!"

"And now, it's mine. What of it?"

She felt her eyes tear up and bit her tongue. That sword was all she was … "Give it back to me," she meekly demanded once more. "It belongs to me."

Todo briefly raised up the book in his hand. "And so did _Werther_: it belonged to someone else and I took it from him. I am a highwayman, señora. Taking things from other people is what I do for a living. And who knows, I might even have saved your life this way, too."

And that was it. It had been this very sword by which she had lived and killed. It had been the act of revenge, the act of murdering her tormentors, that had brought her brother back to her. This sword was her sole rainbow, her sole token of the promise her brother had given her: never to leave her. To lose it would mean losing Lelouch. And thus her brother said: _take it_.

But, once she had reached that decision, the question remained how to do that. Todo was strong, tall and battle-hardened. He carried two swords, she carried none. She also could not kill him … for, vile though he was, he had saved her life. _Not that it matters_, threw in her brother, _he saved you for the ransom_. He had also, and that weighed more, been her sole protector amongst the highwaymen in the beginning. And when Ogi and some of the others had later approached her with offers of friendship, it had been instigated by Todo. Killing Todo – if she even managed to – would solve nothing, only provide more problems.

Accordingly, her only advantages were speed and wit. But the latter would not aid her much; Todo was smart and had been warned. He would be too wary to keep any openings. His size and arms, however, made him slow, while Nunnally was small and agile. If she could just snatch the rapier from Todo's hands and put the point to his throat before he could react, she would have won.

And so, Nunnally took a deep breath, then, fast as a lightning she leaned in, reached out for the blade in Todo's hands and … grasped nothing.

Before she had even noticed it, Todo had drawn back the sword and taken a step away from her. Her eyes widened. She had had only one attempt, and now Todo would probably punish her …

Todo once again leaned against the rock slab and opened _Werther _where he had stopped reading.

What.

Heavily breathing, Nunnally took a few steps backwards. What was that supposed to mean? Of course, he must have expected her to try and retrieve her sword. The only advantage she had had – beside superior speed – had been the moment of surprise. Which she had now lost. So, what else remained? She needed that sword, needed to get it back.

But, how? She looked around the deserted camp. She probably could find a weapon in one of the tents … obviously she could not match Todo in strength or skill, and she probably could not handle a musket, so she would have to find a pistol. But while pistols where carried by many travellers and could thus be easily acquired by the highwaymen, their ammunition was valuable. She doubted that the men would have left all she would need – gunpowder and a lead shot – in their tents, and even if they had, she would have only one shot. She had never shot a gun before, but she had heard that they were notoriously inaccurate, so she would have to get close to Todo.

And what if she shot him?

Well, of course she would get her sword back, and that was her primary concern. She owed nothing to Todo – she had never asked him to save her life, and even if she did owe him, she was not inclined in the least to pay that debt. Nevertheless, she depended on him. Should she shoot him, whether killing or merely wounding him, she would lose his support and suddenly be alone amongst his men. What would protect her from their vengeance? And also, Lelouch noted, sticking with Todo was her best chance yet to fulfil her solemn vow.

Hence, she would have to avoid hurting Todo. But what else remained? In fact, shooting him was her best bet yet to retake her rapier, and that was what counted.

Nunnally closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Looking behind her, she saw that Todo was still ignoring her, reading _Werther_. Then she turned and stout-hearted walked towards one of the tents. Flapping aside the tent-door, she stooped to enter. It took her eyes a moment to get used to the half-light. Then she looked around. Not much – a greatcoat, two stinking straw mattresses. Looking around, she accidentally found a "hidden" moneybag, but placed it back whence she had taken it: it might become helpful later, yet right now it would be a burden.

But then she found what she was looking for: a small, silver pistol hidden under one of the mattresses. It was tiny and slender, of a design she thought she had seen on English sailors calling at Cadiz before, a so-called Queen Anne pistol. A long, slender, rifled barrel which, she noticed, could be screwed off from the gun to load it. She would still need to find a bullet and gunpowder, though.

Stuffing the little gun into her coat, Nunnally left the tent, looked around. Yes, Todo was still where she had left him, chuckling, doubtless at an amusing passage in the novel. He didn't look up as she walked past. Silently, Nunnally entered one of the other tents, sought for what she needed, and then another one.

Yet only when she entered Todo's own tent – which he had for himself, whereas his men would often sleep two to four men in a tent –, she found what she needed. Right there on the ground before her, between a blanket rolled out on the ground to her left, and some orderly laid-out shaving equipment to the right, lay a single round lead ball, black and dull, about eight Castilian lines in diameter. Next to it was, upon a little piece of paper torn out from a book, a pinch of gunpowder, just enough for a single shot.

Nunnally froze. What did this mean? Had she been meant to find this? If so, it meant that Todo had predicted her reasoning and, thus, would know she was coming for him … had he grown suspicious when she had begun going through the tents and briefly laid this out, or had he planned this all along? But no matter, for in any case, it meant that she had lost whatever shred of the element of surprise she had retained before. Laying out the ammunition like this meant that Todo was leading her just where he wanted her. And if that was where he wanted her, it probably meant he already had a counter to her attempt to overwhelm him.

But, wait. Surely he would not have made it this obvious, then – tried to hide the lead shot and powder just enough to seem hidden, whilst still being easily found by her. He earned nothing, after all, if she chose to ignore his trap, having seen through it. Todo probably expected her to see through him and _not _run into his trap – but he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of laying _that _trap without having taken precautions. Accordingly, she had to take the offered ammunition – but what if he had expected her to do just that? And, no matter how far she thought, this brought her back to her original problem. For whether she took it or not, she ran into Todo's trap.

And if she were to run into a trap anyway, she would rather do it with a loaded pistol in her hand.

Biting her lip (a nervous – never mind), Nunnally knelt on the earthen ground and unscrewed the barrel of the small pistol. She had never actually held a gun – it felt strangely mundane, completely unlike a sword. She was not at all comfortable with it, but it was better than nothing. Anyway, she wanted to have the lead shot propelled by the exploding gunpowder, so she first dropped a pinch of the black chemical into the barrel's stump, then, very carefully, placed the leaden ball atop it and, just as carefully, screwed the barrel back on.

But how to ignite the gunpowder in the barrel? She had a close look at the flintlock mechanism atop the pistol. There were two pieces of bright steel protruding from the gun's top, both movable. The former had the shape of a swan's neck and was connected to the pistol's body by a pivot. Between its jaws was a piece of flint and its end formed the trigger. A spring pushed it back, though the flint still touched the other piece of steel before it. She cautiously pulled it back and it locked in place, but upon pulling the trigger, it would snap forward again, slamming against the other piece of steel. That other piece of steel before the swan's neck was thin and with a rectangular bend around the middle. A hinge connected it to the pistol. Pushing it back, she discovered that underneath was the pan, a small dent with a hole connecting it to the barrel in its centre.

Then she understood. When she pulled the trigger, the flint would snap against the steel, simultaneously pushing it back to reveal the pan and throwing out sparks. The sparks would fall into the pan, which she had to fill with gunpowder. As it burned, the flame entered the barrel through the hole, make the gunpowder in it explode and shoot out the lead bullet.

Simple.

Nunnally quickly filled a tiny pinch of powder into the pan and closed it again. Then she pulled back the swan's neck into firing position and rose to her feet. Then she left the tent, the pistol in her hand raised.

Todo was nowhere to be seen.

She felt her breath quicken. So, there was indeed a trap, as she had thought. Still, nothing to worry about – she could still outwit Todo, if only she was wary and got a good shot. Biting her lip, she raised the pistol in her hand and looked around. Where could he have disappeared to?

Then suddenly a hand came from behind her and, vice-like, gripped her right wrist and twisted her arm around.

Nunnally screamed in pain, but held on to the gun in her hand. She could feel Todo's hot breath in her neck as they struggled for control of the weapon. Another hand closed around her left wrist. Dully pulsating pain ran through her twisted arm and shoulder.

Clenching her teeth, Nunnally fought against the strong grip holding her firm. If only she could bring the mouth of her pistol to face Todo … But, alas, it was like trying to move a stone wall. By now, both of them were heavily breathing. Her booted feet slid an inch or so through the dusty ground. Sweat ran down her face. Her arm screamed in anguish.

Then, a deep voice by her ear said: "Footwork."

A sudden, thankfully slightly missed, kick at the back of her knee made her lose her balance. She stumbled. A shot went off, far louder than she had expected, and for a moment she saw her surroundings through thick white smoke that made her eyes hurt and. Todo uttered a surprised grunt, so she supposed she had missed, but the confusion was sufficient to make him let go of her.

Instinctively, Nunnally whirled around and blindly grasped at a hard, round stick. She felt the texture of leather and metal. Pulling on it, she realised that it had to be Todo's sabre, which she had somehow managed to find amidst the thick smoke. She blindly slashed at him, but hit only air.

As the gun smoke settled, she realised that Todo was standing just out of sword range before her, very laxly holding _her_ rapier in hand.

She felt cold fury rising within her. How dare he treat her like this! How dare he take this sword from her, take _Lelouch_, her beloved, _murdered _brother from her, and _turn it against_ _her_? Nunnally screamed and, sabre in hand, jumped at Todo, violently slashing at him.

The highwayman effortlessly dodged her attack, then a second one directed at his throat. Again she ran at him. Todo laxly turned and let her stumble over his outstretched leg. "Footwork," he repeated as she hit the dust, then set the point of her own rapier against her neck as she tried to rise.

And, for the first time since _it _had happened, Nunnally felt like crying. If that sword was Lelouch, then _Lelouch_ – whom she had adopted into her body, whom she had loved and who had loved her and who was her – had thrown her into the dust. And if that sword was her connection, her divine rainbow, then was that connection cut?

As the tears started running down her cheeks, Nunnally slowly dragged herself to her feet. All the while, the sword-point remained fixed on her neck. She did not struggle when Todo gently wrestled his sabre from her hand.

So – just like this – she had failed. Had lost her brother, all that remained of him but her memories, and these too would fade without something to hold on to them with. She silently begged for him to aid her, but Lelouch remained silent. Had she angered him? Most certainly. Did he know no solution to her dilemma, either? Most certainly not. … Was he gone already?

Something was pressed into your hand. For a moment she was puzzled as to what it might be. It felt warm and familiar. Reasserting. A thin octagonal stick, strangely heavy. The texture of leather, the scent of steel.

Nunnally gasped and, slowly, warily, turned to face Todo. His face was, as ever, a stern and solemn mask, though this time it shone with sweat. "Why …," she whispered, uncomprehending. "Why … why didn't you give it back when I asked you to?"

For a very brief moment, she thought she had seen the smile of a cynic on Todo's thin lips, but that might just have been her reading things into his uncannily unmoving mien. "Should I have?"

She bit her lip, holding the rapier close to her bosom. The cold steel felt warm and reassuring. "Well … yes," she managed to say. "It's mine."

"And how does that matter to me? Had I kept it, it would have become mine. Would you have taken it back, it would have become yours again. Nothing will ever be given to you for free – you have to take it. It would do you good to learn that, little lady."

Everything inside of her was revolted by Todo's words. Indeed Nunnally found it nigh impossible to even spare a thought on them, for, if Todo were right, then what about charity, prudence, humility, fraternal love? It was contradictory to her very identity. She thought that there must have been some horrible betrayal in his past to make him talk like this. And yet, she heard Lelouch's voice by her ear, warm and silky as he explained: _He's got a point, you know. Who knows the depravity of mankind better than you do? I love you, and there are others that do, and for us your smile is payment enough, but in the end you have to rely on those you do not, and they will expect reimbursement of some kind, be it instant and in cash or distant and implicit._

And yet, something did not add up. "Then why did you give my sword back to me? I was unable to take it back, after all."

Todo's expression didn't change, remaining stern as ever. "Because knowing that humans are bastards does not make me a monster. I will not aid you if it does not benefit me – let that be a warning to you. But I am no monster and take no pleasure in the ill fortune of my fellow men, so I will not cause you undue suffering, either. I took the sword from you, aye, and I kept it, out of curiosity. It is, however, plain that this sword is highly important to you, and so I gave it back. I recommend you make good use of it, though."

Slowly, Nunnally nodded. Accordingly, the entire set-up had been a test – a test that might well have gone lethal for either of them. What had Todo gained by setting up the ammunition for her to find? Any idiot would have realised that it was a trap, and that avoiding the trap was a trap as well, so it could not have been how she thought. Her choice had been between taking the ammunition and making the best of it and leaving it be. Courage, perhaps? Determination? Unlikely.

"First things first," Todo then said, "you don't, ever, thrust with a sabre. Similarly, you don't cut with a rapier. It should be obvious from the shapes of the blades." And, drawing his sabre, he continued: "Now, you are small and agile, so make use of that when you attack, so watch your footwork …"

A faint and exhausted smile appeared on Nunnally's face as she wearily raised her rapier to follow the highwayman's instructions.

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Please review.


	7. The Salon at Ca' Rezzonico

Merry Marxmas and a red new year.

Note that Lelouch's "analysis" is lifted almost verbatim from John Julius Cooper, 2nd Viscount Norwich's book _A History of Venice_, the epilogue to be precise.

Ca' Rezzonico exists. I have visited it and done my best to describe it appropriately, though I took the liberty of having the Rezzonico family become extinct some 30 years early. It is, today, a museum for the Venice of the 18th Century and features a stunning gallery of Venetian artists from Renaissance and Baroque.

The Mozart piece I mentioned is the Serenade No. 10 "Gran Partita", which is the piece that makes Antonio Salieri recognise Mozart's genius in the brilliant film and play _Amadeus_: ""This was no composition by a performing monkey. This was a music I'd never heard. Filled with such longing, such unfulfillable longing. It seemed to me that I was hearing the voice of God.

There was indeed a small, but enthusiastic revolutionary society in Venice. However, it failed to produce anything of worth. At least the fact that they weren't suppressed is powerful evidence against the 18th Century claim that Venice was a police state, which it most certainly was not. Napoleon was astounded, for example, when he demanded the release of political prisoners in 1797 and the Venetian authorities could find none.

Regarding fashion, Cecilia (and her female guests) are wearing clothes in the Directory style (later, the Empire and Regency styles), which actually evolved only around 1795. However, it originated considerably earlier in the revolutionary period, though not yet in forms which could be widely worn. The baring of the breasts had little sexual connotation in these days, less so than that of the shoulder, and dates back to a mistress of Louis IX in the 1500s. Over time, French court fashion fluctuated between reasonably low cleavages and, in some cases in the 18th Century, those completely baring both breasts. The truly revolutionary thing about Cecilia's dress is that simple, flowing white dresses had associations of a) Ancient Rome and b) underwear. The first instance of this is a portrait of Queen Marie-Antoinette of France, a fashion which was soon taken up by all who wished to be risqué, such as Lady Hamilton, the famous stage dancer, courtesan and mistress of Lord Horation Nelson.

All the characters in the salon are based on Code Geass or Akito characters. Olympe de Malkal is a fusion of Leila Malkal and Olympe de Gouges. Mario Cavaradossi and Floria Tosca are characters from Puccini's marvellous opera _Tosca_. The surname of Mao, Dupole, is adapted from Verdi's _La traviata_'s Baron Douphoul, which should tell you all you need to know.

The reading is an English translation of part of Maximilien Robespierre's 1794 speech "Republic of Virtue".

In case you are interested, I recommend you to read John Julius Cooper, Lord Norwich's "A History of Venice". It is concise, lively and thoroughly enthralling.

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**The Salon at Ca' Rezzonico**

* * *

_Venice, April 1792_

* * *

Ever since catching a glimpse at the courtesan Cecilia Cuzzoni at the opening performance of the_ La Fenice _theatre the week before, Lelouch had barely thought about anything else: too mesmerising had that experience been. He could perfectly recall every single detail, from the curve of her breast and the folds of her dress to her gleaming white teeth when she had and the gleam in her amber eyes when she had laughed. Her beauty had struck a chord in him.

For what was beauty to him? The greatest joy he had known to that day was spending time with his sister, watching her, harking her words. Nunnally was – had been – the most beautiful being in the world. That still was so after he had beheld Cecilia Cuzzoni, but the courtesan certainly came closer than anyone else. Her beauty, though, was different. Nunnally's had been plain and, objectively, not as great as he thought it to be. What had made Nunnally the wonder she had been had been her sweet and gentle character and the incomparable love he had felt for her. He alone had been able to fully realise her perfection, and hence to him she had been without equal.

The beauty of Cecilia Cuzzoni, on the other hand, was sterile and distant. He knew her not, knew only her physical beauty. He had watched her enthralled, like a lover of art might watch a painting or a sculpture, like a lover of music might listen to a symphony. He recognised her objective beauty and was absolutely enraptured. But that was it – he loved the façade and not the interior. It might well be that Cecilia Cuzzoni was fickle and shallow, and her profession suggested loose mores; avarice, pride and lust.

But still her physique was exciting and dazzling, and so he longed to see her again.

And thus it came that on the evening of the 25th of April, a Wednesday five days after the outbreak of war between Austria and France, Lelouch and Haliburton stepped out of a gondola in front of the palazzo of Cecilia Cuzzoni.

Ca' Rezzonico had been commissioned by the wealthy patrician Bon family in the mid-17th Century. The head of the family, Filippo Bon, had employed the then-greatest architect of Venice to build the palace in the up-and-coming Baroque style, but had run out of money with only the first of the three-and-a-half story finished. It had taken almost a century for the palazzo to be completed: the rich, but only recently ennobled Rezzonico family had bought the site from the impoverished Bons and continued building it. When a Rezzonico was elected Pope in 1758 – Clement XIII –, the pinnacle of the power and grandeur of the family had come, and with it splendour and luxury.

However, due to infertility and the notorious Venetian custom of marrying only the first son to keep the family's wealth together, the Rezzonicos had gone extinct several years ago, wherefore their host tonight would be none other than Cecilia Cuzzoni.

The palace she lived in was large, even by Venetian standards. Its façade was facing the Grand Canal where it joined the Rio di San Barnaba, which meant that it had water on two sides. A small wooden bridge across the San Barnaba connected the palace's portico with the adjacent island. Several dozen gondolas were tied up by brightly painted wooden posts standing in the water around the landing place. The façade was three stories of light grey stones and rich white marble colonnades, all highly ornate. The ground floor was rusticated, containing a central recessed portico of three bays without a pediment, symmetrically flanked by windows in two bays. Above this the piano nobile of seven bays of arched windows, separated by pilasters, above this the second piano nobile was near identical, and above this a mezzanine floor of low oval windows. The slight projection of the two tiers of balconies to the piano nobili accentuated the baroque decoration and design of the building. Everything was brightly lit by torches and lanterns, and from the piano nobile sounded music and pleasant chatter.

A pageboy helped them ascend the steps from the water to the pavement. Looking around, Lelouch realised that, even in the clothes Haliburton had gifted him, he was dressed poorly compared to the other guests' attire: he wore a black (as befit him) double-breasted coat with large silver buttons, a dark grey waistcoat, black breeches with white silk stockings and black lacquered shoes, a cravat tied in the latest Venetian fashion, his smallsword had a gilded hilt and gilded black leather scabbard, and he wore a hat in the latest fashion, a so-called bicorne. Instead of being triangular in shape, this new hat's broad brim had the front and rear halves turned up and pinned together (the shorter front brim being called the "cock" and the longer rear binned called a "fan"), forming a semi-circular fan shape. The hatter and Rolo had tried to convince him to wear a cockade with that, either the scarlet national cockade of Spain or the blue-and-gold one of the Republic of Venice, or perhaps something entirely different – pure white or blue-red-and-white, to show support for either the royalists or the revolutionaries? But no, for how could he, after what had happened! And so his bicorne tonight was simple black felt.

And while Haliburton was not overly dressed up by his standards , the same could not be said for the other guests. Many of the gentlemen wore brightly coloured coats and breeches (though many, rather curiously, wore trousers); and as many as half the ladies sported simple, often risqué white dresses that would not have looked out of place in Ancient Greece, but certainly looked outlandish to him – though that might just have been him being something of a backwoodsman. After all he remembered Cecilia Cuzzoni's dress at the opera, with one breast and even both shoulders bared; and he knew that dresses bearing one or both breasts were not uncommon in French court fashion. It still seemed strange to him.

They entered the building. Haliburton led him through the courtyard with what had once been the Rezzonico's office and storage. "Cecilia holds a big salon every Wednesday," he said. "Have you ever been to a salon?" Lelouch said he hadn't, prompting his host to explain. "There are of course other salons in Venice, bigger ones, too. Cecilia's is the only one I attend regularly, though – there always is some kind of entertainment, of course. We celebrated her 20th birthday earlier this year with a specially-commissioned one-act opera by Anfossi. But people mostly come to talk …"

At the end of the courtyard was a grand staircase to the piano nobile, brightly lit by chandeliers, under a huge relief of the arms of the extinct Rezzonico family. A fountain's gentle rippling to the left, chatter and music from above. They ascended the grand staircase and a page took their hats.

The first room was a massive ballroom. Two stories high, it took in all of the palazzo's width and perhaps a fourth of its length. Tall windows to the Rio di San Barnaba, the courtyard and the land side and intricate trompe-l'œil paintings – painted corridors and adjacent halls, colonnades, pillars and landscapes; as if the hall never ended – on the ballroom's wall made it feel even larger. A magnificent ceiling fresco depicted Phoebus on his chariot. Above the windows to the courtyard, the arms of the Rezzonico family amid gilded drapes. Flanking the doors to the grand staircase and two suites of rooms to the left and right of the courtyard were life-sized ebony statues of Nubian savages wielding clubs. Comfortable-looking chairs and sofas by the walls, all ebony with dark green cushions, invited to rest. Two magnificent crystal chandeliers bathed the ballroom in a warm, brilliant light. A chamber orchestra of some 23 pieces was playing a serenade in B flat major by the recently deceased Amadeo Mozart, a piece Lelouch had known well, once, in a life before this one. Other guests were standing around the room in pairs and small groups, glasses in hands, conversing.

Haliburton seemed to know each and every one of them, and so they only slowly made their way through the ballroom as Haliburton introduced Lelouch to them. He shook hands and laughed at jokes and made a witty remark here and there. It was the same when they passed in the next room, richly decorated with an allegory of a married couple, with a small chapel by the side, and the room after that.

Lelouch was surprised at how many nobles were present. While he had been part of Venice's society for the past month, he had met relatively few patricians, but here, two out of three seemed to be of noble descent, judging by their surnames.

When he mentioned that to Haliburton, his host merely laughed. "Sorry to disappoint," he quietly said, "but they are nobles in name only. They're _Barnabotti_ – impoverished patricians. By right of birth, they sit on the Grand Council. But in Venice, you count nothing if you are poor. And they certainly are – they live worse than most workers. They are forbidden by law to learn a trade or work for pay. All they can turn to are charity, government benefits and gambling."

"Then why are they here?," Lelouch inquired, somewhat appalled. He could understand that the _Barnabotti _were due some dignity due to their nobility, but he had expected to be amongst gentlemen and women tonight. He did not doubt that the other guests had the decorum and refinement becoming a gentleman, having spoken to them, but their economic position directly contradicted their claim to gentle standing.

Haliburton smiled quizzically. "I think it'd be best for Cecilia to explain that to you. Oh, one more thing – it is forbidden by law to discuss politics and you can be fined for it. That said, talk as much politics as you want; Cecilia is a good … _friend _of one of the three State Inquisitors. Oh, she also has this thing about addressing everyone in her inner circle by their first names, so don't be offended. In turn, you may address her as Cecilia, but she won't mind if you don't."

They entered the fourth room on the canal side of the palazzo. The wallpaper was gold decorations on red ground, and the furnishings were kept in red and gold as well. It was far quieter here than in the ballroom. About a dozen men and women were assembled here, seated on sofas and armchairs or leaning on sideboards. Most of them looked Italian, but there was at least one gentleman whose blonde hair and blue eyes placed his origins further north. None of them seemed older than 30. Servants quietly walked around the room, distributing refreshments, and on a buffet arrangements of sweets and snacks had been set up. A young man in a burgundy coat was reading from a little book in French. In fact, most of the people assembled here seemed rather young, with little a guest past forty.

Upon entering, pages closed the door behind them, having recognised Haliburton before. The door to the portego was also closed and Lelouch realised that this was the actual salon, the hard core of Cecilia Cuzzoni's like-minded friends. He felt a little like intruding, but if it would offer him a chance to behold the woman's beauty once again before he left for Vienna, it was well worth it.

On a chaise longue beneath the window leading out to the Grand Canal lay, outstretched and rested on her right elbow like a Roman goddess, Cecilia Cuzzoni. She wore another sheer white dress, decorated with green vines, with a ruffled hemline and a narrow belt of gold cord, with white stockings and silk slippers showing below the hem, lying as she was. Her silky bright green hair fell loosely over her shoulders. Apparently she had given up on the attempt to wear her hair in the fashionable mass of curls most of her female guests sported. A smile played around her lips as she attentively listened to the man reading.

The moment he had first seen her, Lelouch had forgotten why he had come. In fact, for a moment, he forgot to breathe. Her beauty had been stunning from afar at the opera, but it was absolutely striking from up close. Every detail of her unblemished face, neck and décolletage was in plain sight, and each of them added to the impression. If his Nunnally had been Helen, why, this was some kind of unearthly Venus. And, another thing that distinguished the two beauties: while the former's had been pure and innocent, in a way still that of a child, Cecilia Cuzzoni's beauty was that of a woman. Even though her dress was nowhere near as risqué as what she had worn to the opera, there was something incredibly erotic about the way she lay there on the chaise longue. Perhaps it was the open and uncovered hair? But perhaps it was just the way she was, her natural beauty, or the experience of her profession that made Lelouch's body ache with desire, made him think: a fruit ripe for plucking, made her the pinnacle of all the beauty he had seen in Venice.

When she had seen Haliburton, a smile had lit up her face and she had risen to approach him. Now the others noticed him as well and the man in the centre interrupted his reading. Cecilia Cuzzoni embraced Haliburton and kissed his cheeks, brightly smiling. "Rolo," she said as they parted in a voice that was both sweet and mocking, that was a clean soprano with deeply vibrating notes at the bottom. She spoke French. "We missed you, dear! Where have you been?"

Haliburton grinned sheepishly. "Ah, well, I'm awfully sorry about that … you see, I had a guest … Cecilia, this is Lelouch de Lamperouge, from Spain. Monsieur de Lamperouge, meet Madame Cuzzoni."

Smiling, the courtesan turned to face Lelouch. "Any friend of Rolo is our friend," she said. "Welcome to Venice, Lelouch." She reached out a slender hand for him to kiss.

Well, she certainly was confident for a courtesan. But refusing the hand would be impolite, and so he took it and adumbrated a kiss. He was a little confused on whether to touch her knuckles with his lips or not – did a courtesan count as married or unmarried? In any case, she did not object. "Enchanted, Madame," he managed to reply in the same language, "I have been looking forward to meeting you."

Cecilia continued to introduce the other guests: seated on a chair beside the buffet a young and plain lady named Caterina "Nina" d'Unpietra, the unmarried daughter of a rich patrician who had made a few small contributions to natural philosophy, the French poetess and pamphleteer Olympe Malkal, merchants Andrea Farnese (no relation) and Michele Manfredi with their wives, the unsuccessful Prussian playwright and poet Gino (actually Eugen, as he was quick to point out) von Weinberg-Aschenbach and his Venetian fiancée, Kallen Campocitta, a beautiful young woman with fiery red hair and bright blue eyes who struggled unsuccessfully to keep her friend Cecilia from mentioning that they used to be colleagues, then the one who had been reading when they had entered, Leonardo Sasso, a philosopher of nature who insisted on being called Gracchus, the painter Mario Cavaradossi and his lover the singer Floria Tosca, and Cecilia's current lover, Baron Matteo Dupole, called Mao.

A tall man in his twenties, he had full, silver-white hair and sharp black eyes. The baron was, legally speaking, the owner of Ca' Rezzonico, but on the other hand he was married as well, to a woman twice his age. Coming from a recently ennobled, but insanely rich family, he had taken over the Dupoles' trading empire at 23 and now traded mostly in furs and fine cloths, with branch offices in Constantinople, Genoa, Rome, Kerch on the Crimea and Moscow.

He was, however, more concerned about matters closer to home. As a noble, he automatically held a seat on the Republic's Grand Council, but he had gone further and had himself elected into the _Consilio dei Pregradi_, the 120-member senate of the Republic in charge of day-to-day legislation. Since, he had made a name for himself as a radical, but highly intelligent politician and considered to be likely to be elected into the Ten next year and, perhaps, become Doge one day, in thirty to fifty years.

Also, he was the exclusive lover (customer?) of Cecilia Cuzzoni. Lucky bastard.

Lelouch and Haliburton sat on elaborate ebony armchairs with red lining and Gracchus Sasso resumed his reading:

"_In our country we want to substitute morality for egoism, honesty for honour, principles for customs, duties for decorum, the rule of reason for the tyranny of custom, the contempt of vice for the contempt of misfortune, pride for insolence, magnanimity for vanity, love of glory for love of money, good people for well-bred people, merit for intrigue, genius for wit, truth for pompous action, warmth of happiness for boredom of sensuality, greatness of man for pettiness of the great; a magnanimous, powerful, happy people for a polite, frivolous, despicable people - that is to say, all the virtues and all the miracles of the Republic for all the vices and all the absurdities of the monarchy._

"_In one word, we want to fulfil the wishes of nature, accomplish the destiny of of humanity, keep the promises of philosophy, absolve Providence from the long reign of crime and tyranny._

"_What kind of government can realize these marvels? Only a democratic or republican government._

"_But what is the fundamental principle of the democratic or popular government, that is to say, the essential strength that sustains it and makes it move? It is virtue: I am speaking of the public virtue which brought about so many marvels in Greece and Rome and which must bring about much more astonishing ones yet in republican France; of that virtue which is nothing more than love of the fatherland and of its laws._

"_If the strength of popular government in peacetime is virtue, the strength of popular government in revolution is both virtue and terror; terror without virtue is disastrous, virtue without terror is powerless. Terror is nothing but prompt, severe, and inflexible justice; it is thus an emanation of virtue; it is less a particular principle than a consequence of the general principle of of democracy applied to the most urgent needs of the fatherland. It is said that terror is the strength of despotic government. Does ours then resemble the one with which the satellites of tyranny are armed? Let the despot govern his brutalized subjects through terror; he is right as a despot. Subdue the enemies of liberty through terror and you will be right as founders of the Republic. The government of revolution is the despotism of liberty against tyranny."_

The naturalist finished, closed the booklet in his hands and sat. "Thank you, Gracchus," Cecilia said, switching to Italian. "Say, who wrote this, again? I find it most extraordinary."

"The public prosecutor of Paris and member of the Jacobin Club, a _citoyen _Maximilien de Robespierre."

"I am certain we will hear more of him in the near future," Cecilia expressed. "His proposition seems the logical consequence of the Revolution. Liberty can only flourish once the nation has been cleansed of subversive elements, of the agents of tyranny. Right now, the Revolution is fragile and threatened."

"Still," Gino objected, "we must be careful not to compromise the Revolution. Once the people's delegates make use of despotic means, they might become despots themselves. There need to be limits on … how does he call it? "Terror". Imagine a ruthless demagogue gaining control of the state and using terror to subdue the friends of liberty. Caesar, after all, never ceased power. He was elected into office and simply refused to step down."

Whispering, Lelouch leaned in to ask Haliburton: "What _is_ this place …?"

He could not tell what he had expected. The fact was that, though he dabbled in Venetian society quite a lot in the past month, he had not heard a single political discussion since … well, since leaving Cadiz. He'd had no idea what the political climate in Venice was, much less their opinion regarding the Revolution in France. Hence, he had supposed that implicit in their silence was the same hatred of that Revolution he felt. After all, was that hatred not what all sentient creatures ought to feel at the unholy proceedings in the realm of France?

"Well," Haliburton whispered back, "I told you most of us are republicans, didn't I …"

"I don't think you did, . I would not have come if you had." Indeed, he was tempted to leave on some pretext. He may have been idle where he should have been industrious, may have rested where he should have marched on and betrayed Nunnally's memory in ways innumerable. Nevertheless, this was too much. How could he hold company with her murderers, drink their wine, eat their food, and conspire to uphold the system that had murdered her?

But that would be incredibly rude, and it would mean that he would no longer be able to gaze at the courtesan. And so, he remained where he was. _Forgive me, Nunnally_.

"Certainly," Kallen agreed. "That is a possibility. However, the use of terror as a revolutionary weapon serves to expose such Caesars and, once found, remove them from the body politic. We have yet to see it in use, but I am certain that, once the Legislative Assembly proclaims the terror, the Revolution will stabilise."

"Of course, the monarchy needs to be destroyed before that," Olympe Malkal threw in. "The Revolution cannot rest in peace as long as it is lead by kings. The crowned heads of Europe will do all to destroy us and maintain their power."

"Not necessarily," Farnese objected. "In any civilised system, some people have power and others don't. That is the law of nature. It would be completely impossible to achieve full equality, but it is well possible to achieve the greatest possible _liberty _within a system of monarchy. Hence, why commit an act of barbarianism against the King of the French, who rules by the will of the nation, when we can just as well strip him of his objectionable powers and achieve the same?"

"So a king who claims to rule by divine right would just accept that?," Gino inquired. "I cannot believe that. Even in England, where the people have been ruling for a century through Parliament, the king has again and again attempted to regain the power his ancestors bore in an less enlightened time. No – the crowned heads of Europe will never let us rest if we let _them _rest."

"In any case," Cecilia tried to moderate the discussion. Her words drew all attention – it was obvious that her opinion was held in high regard, even beyond her being the host, "how does this apply to Venice? With all these considerations in mine, we have to consider that we have little influence on the proceedings on France. As civilised humans, however, it is our supreme duty to support the Revolution and spread its fire across the nations. All over Europe, friends and allies are working towards the greater liberty of the nations. It is our duty to liberate Venice. Now, we cannot apply what worked in Paris to this greatest of cities. Too unique is our Serene Republic. Now, friends, how may we carry the Revolution to the Lagoon?"

_Forgive me, Nunnally_.

"Well, I suppose the oligarchy is a problem," Haliburton (good Lord) noted. "In France, it was the _bourgeoisie _that directed and lead the Revolution. In Venice, the aristocracy in the Grand Council has no real complaints – the entire state is tailored to their measure. They will not rise. The people might, if we inspire them – but what is the difference? The people of France were poor and hungry. In Venice, even the poorest of the poor live in splendour compared to them. You cannot have both a full stomach _and _a Revolution."

"So what do you propose?"

"Venice used to be a democracy, if I got my history right. In the Early Middle Ages, the Grand Council did not yet exist. The Doge was elected and the Republic governed by the assembly of all free citizens. Of course such an arrangement is no longer completely viable – we have grown too far, our nation has spread beyond the Lagoon onto the _terra firma_, into Dalmatia and the Aegean. We can no longer govern this nation in the assembly of the citizens. Nevertheless, upon this we must base our next steps. We cannot have a proper Revolution. Our best bet is to use the established canals of the governance of the Republic to bring about reform. We need to gain control of the Barnabotti, then we'll have a majority in the Grand Council. It might be slow, but it's our best chance."

"Can we, actually? The Barnabotti live by selling their votes. We'd have to either buy them or somehow convince the great majority of them."

"Quite a lot of them are here," Cecilia said. "Not enough, of course, but it's a start. Many of them are influential among the impoverished patricians. In any case, we won't need them for long. The question remains what exactly we will have to do."

There was a short pause. Lelouch grimaced. So, now it became obvious – the "salon" was, at best, a conspiracy to introduce the principles of the Revolution – tyranny, exploitation, brutality – to Venice. And, knowing the Venetians, they would not even resist. Here too, they would rape and murder noblewomen, would destroy tender bonds of love and replace them with cold vengeance. One part of Lelouch's mind noted that this would actually benefit him. The more young men minded on destroying that Revolution there were, the more men like him, the sooner the Revolution would fall. That was the calculating part, the home of Reason, but there was another part: primeval, archaic, yet overbearing, and it raged against whomsoever would rob him of his just revenge.

Eventually, Gino spoke. "I believe the first action we will have to take is to reform the constitution. We could just copy that of France."

"Doubtful," his fiancée objected. "You're not from Venice. The people of this city love their ancient traditions. And they have served us well, after all. This our Most Serene Republic has existed for some 13 centuries. It has never seen a coup. It has never been conquered. Whenever there was a crisis, military or economical, our ancient constitution provided political stability. There are a great many things wrong with it, but it would be better to reform it instead of replacing it."

"For instance?"

"Abolish the Great Council. What does it serve? Certainly not the interests of the people. The only ones who benefit from that institution, impractical as it is, is Venice's equivalent to the Second Estate. Only a tiny faction of Venice's total population is represented in it, and that of our other territories – Dalmatia, the Ionic Isles, the _terra firma_ – not at all. It is also too big to be effective. They meet only a few times every year, and not in strength, and their sessions are taken up almost completely by electoral duties. What we need to do is abolish the Great Council and instead make the Senate a popularly elected legislative of the entire Republic."

Cecilia nodded. "What about the Doge, then? I quite like the old fool."

"Well, it's not as if he holds much power," Haliburton said. "He's mostly a ceremonial figure nowadays. It's the rest of the Signoriaand the Ten who really control the state. I don't think he does much harm. His term needs to be limited, though …"

And so it went on and on. It soon became obvious to Lelouch that the group was not having this discussion for the first time, which confused him: if they had been plotting for months, why was there still so little to show? Why was the Queen of the Adriatic still serene and unviolated? Setting aside the ridiculous possibility that they had not gotten to actually doing anything yet, it could only be due to incompetence. But all these people seemed intelligent and creative to him, if blind and misguided.

An hour or two passed. A light dinner of seven exquisite courses was served, and Cecilia left them for a short while to take care of her other guests. When she had returned, the discussion had moved on to the war. Of course, the revolutionaries were completely unable to find any sort of consensus. There were those who opposed France's Legislative Assembly's decision to declare war on the Empire, of course. The Revolution was not yet firmly entrenched in France, they said, and it was too early to start exporting it. But the great majority of them were enthusiastic at the outbreak at war.

But the salon was a Venetian one, and so the question of Venice's role in the conflict remained. Geographically speaking, the Venetian _terra firma _was situated just between France and Austria; bordering the Papal States in the South, Switzerland and the Bishopric of Trent in the North, the Austrian Duchy of Milan in the West and Austria proper in the East. For centuries, in the never-ending conflict between the houses of Capet and Habsburg, the plains of Northern Italy, Lombardy and the Veneto, had been the battlefield of Europe. Already, Austrian forces had crossed the border to march to the Piedmontese front through the Veneto.

Accordingly, the Republic of Venice was forced to act. They had to declare for either side and block the way for the other, if not necessarily take up arms. Or the ancient Republic could stay serene as ever and have her countryside, after the decline of Mediterranean trade the source of her wealth, ravaged by both sides.

Obviously, the leading opinion was that Venice should ally with France against the tyrants of Europe, aid the struggling French with money and a rebuilt navy. "We were great," Cecilia pronounced to everyone's agreement, "We ruled the Middle Sea. Once – some three centuries ago – the Lion of St. Mark's roar was feared from Acre to Constantinople, from Constantinople to Genoa. Today, we pay tithes to the Emperor, the Grand Turk, the Pope and other tyrants to fare our sea. Once, the Arsenal could muster and man a fleet of half a thousand sails and twenty-five thousand oars within two months. Today, our fleet consists of only a handful of sails and is set to decline further since Grand Admiral Emo's death last month.. Once, our commerce and wealth were ever increasing. Today, we are living off accumulated wealth and small trade. Once, Venetian men could wrestle the Greek empire to the ground, led by a blind 95-years-old. Today, our men frolic in brothels and theatres and cower when called upon to fight the Turk. And our possessions in overseas – the Aegean isles, Crete, the Morea, sweet Corfu – are lost to the Mohammedans."

Cecilia had risen from her divan as she spoke these words, her dress falling around her white and supple limbs in the manner of the Ancients. "What might be the cause of this catastrophic decline?," she inquired. "What was our last great triumph? Lepanto, against the Turks. Have we changed since? Are we not as cunning, not as clever, not as proud as we used to be? Well, go to the Rialto and see for yourself if at least our merchants and pickpockets are not still as cunning as any Enrico Dandolo, who brought down the last of the Romans." There was some laughter. "But why then? Trade is falling into final collapse. The ancient and long-held maxims and laws which created and could still create a state's greatness have been forgotten. We are supplanted by foreigners who penetrate right into the bowels of our city – present company excepted. We are despoiled of our substance, and not a shadow of our ancient merchants is to be found among our citizens or our subjects. Capital is lacking, not in the nation, but in commerce. It is used to support effeminacy, excessive extravagance, idle spectacles, pretentious amusements and vice, instead of supporting and increasing industry which is the mother of good morals, virtue, and of essential national trade. Only three years ago, we have made a nouveau-riche Friulian doge. The Republic is dead, friends."

There was a long moment of silence in response to that. A swash of laughter in the adjacent room rose and died. Gino was absent-mindedly playing with a small square of Turkish nougat from the buffet, most of the other guests were silently staring at the floor. Cecilia sat and smoothed out an imagined wrinkle in her dress.

And Lelouch was impressed. When she had spoken just now, a fire had burned in her eyes that reminded him of his late sister. Gleaming, burning, with the intensity of a cavalry charge; eyes that said more than a thousand words ever could. The same passion, the same enthusiasm he had only ever seen in his mother and sister. It was exciting and, objectively, frightening at the same time.

He leaned back in his armchair and crossed his legs. "'Tis true," Lelouch spoke for the first time in this evening. Cecilia's gaze flickered over to him, apparently somewhat surprised. He kept a straight face, spoke cool and sharp. "The current of history is flowing against you. But it need not be the end. Throughout Venice's long history, she has faced three great threats – the opening up of the Cape route to the Indies in 1499, the steady spread of Turkish power for the two centuries following the Fall of Constantinople in 1453 and the combined onslaught launched against her by virtually the whole of Europe, united in the League of Cambrai – she was to blame for none; yet any one of them might have caused her downfall. To have survived all three is no mean accomplishment. From the beginning of the sixteenth century, however, her _dégringolade _has slowly been gathering momentum; and though, just occasionally, it has seemed to be checked by some spectacular victory or success, by the time the smoke dispersed and the cheering died away her triumphs were always revealed as illusory, and what had at first been hailed as a turning-point in Venetian fortunes was recognised to be merely another milestone on the downward path. Her much-vaunted defeat of the Turks at Lepanto in 1571 did her no good at all; Francesco Morosini's Peloponnesian conquests of 1685 lasted barely thirty years; and the jubilations with which you greeted the successful skirmishes of Angelo Emo against the Barbary pirates in the last decades proved only how desperately you need encouragement and how far your standards have declined.

"By now, too, another fact is becoming evident. Though cultural life might continue to flourish, though the economy might still have its ups and downs, the body politic is sick unto death. It is as if the constitution – that miraculous, marvellous constitution which has preserved your Republic until it could boast a longer period of unbroken authority than any other state in Europe – has worn out at last, all its former flexibility and resilience gone. The degree of influence wielded, for example, by Andrea Tron, who for a whole generation was virtual dictator of Venice by virtue not of any offices he held but of his character and personality alone, would have been unthinkable in former times – a betrayal of the one key principle for which the Republic had always striven, that too much power should never be concentrated in the hands of a single individual. Even after Tron's death, the late Doge Renier and his friends tended to govern you through small, semi-official groups and caucuses – much like the one you are planning to set up – some members of which might from time to time hold positions of responsibility in the Collegio or elsewhere but would not appreciably lose influence even when their terms of office expired. Such a system, whatever its fault, does not necessarily result in weak government, at least in the short term; with a firm hand at the helm, it may even make for quicker decisions and more determined action at the moment of crisis. But in the hands of mediocrities it cannot fail to sap the constitutional strength of the state, rendering it defenceless. I know not who will administer the _coup de grâce_, but the _Serenissima _is already doomed. Exhausted, demoralised and no longer able to keep pace with the changing world, you have, quite simply, lost the will to live.

"To keep going would require breaking the pattern in which you have crystallised. But you have grown fond of that pattern. Can you find the will to break it? Can you turn around the tide of history? You speak of your glorious past, Madame. Can you, then, bring up the same determination and ambition that enabled Enrico Dandolo to take Constantinople? Can you reform the body politic without reverting to anarchy and barbarism; can you be the wave of youthful energy that needs to overwhelm this city, half-asleep and dying as it is? I wonder."

"How sweet," the fiery redhead (Karen? Kallen? Something like that) scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Obviously, she was irritated by his speech. "A fine analysis indeed. And I suppose you already have the solution ready?"

"I will freely admit that I am a stranger to Venice, her history and her politics, whereas you fine ladies and gentlemen have spent your lives here. Nevertheless, if my analysis is correct, the solution seems obvious to me: the constitution of Venice, while it has been sufficient for centuries, must needs be reformed, and it must be reformed at once, lest the Republic is swept away by this war, which she shall not survive unless renewed. There needs to be, however, an impetus for this. You can see for yourself that nothing will be done unless the Grand Council's hands are forced. The way to bring this about is to join the war – on _Austria's _side." Suddenly, he had everyone's full attention. Surprise showed on their faces, maybe disbelief. He was asked to explain his reasoning – would he, perchance, try to hinder the Austrians by pretending to aid them?

"Not in the slightest. Consider it this way: Venice is trapped between Austria and Austrian Milan, with the Empire to the north and the Pope to the south. Should the Republic declare for France, the Veneto will become a battleground. At the moment, she can field some three brigades of Croatian mercenaries – not precisely a force capable of taking on the Austrians. Would the French not aid her, you ask? The French can barely defend their own borders. Their armies are ill-led, ill-fed and ill-equipped and will soon crumble under the onslaught of the civilised nations of Europe. Oh, but the _Serenissima _will withstand every siege, you say. Never before has she been conquered. Though she has no walls, the Lagoon serves as a formidable obstacle. Well, so was Tyre, the Venice of antiquity, defended by the sea, and she too has fallen. Your wooden walls? A handful of ragged sails, no match for even the Austrians! You cannot use them to bring in grain from your Dalmatian holdings, which shall soon be occupied, anyway, let alone defend your city. Should Venice be besieged today or tomorrow, she will fall. But the French are far, and the Austrians are near."

"That may well be," Cecilia said, "Nevertheless, it is our duty as humans to stand as a defender of liberty and equality, and the brotherhood of all nations. Though it may be safer, it is absolutely inconceivable that Athens should side with Sparta, or Cicero with Caesar. To side with Austria would be to fight with tyranny, inequality and war."

Lelouch found it hard to scoff at this, too enchanting was the fire in the courtesan's amber eyes. Still, he said: "And I shall prefer the rule of monarchs, the inequality of aristocracy, and properly civilised war over the anarchy of Revolution. The liberty of the sans-culottes is nothing but freedom from all mores and ethics. Their equality leads to murder, robbery, rape, adultery and incest being openly taught and practised. Their fraternity amounts to imposition of these false ideals upon all the peoples of Europe by fire and sword. Hence, and that is my personal decision, I shall not cease from mental strife, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 'till this monstrous Revolution has been crushed and erased from history itself."

One of the other guests (de Malkal?) shouted something indignant, but Cecilia leaned in interested, her gleaming eyes closely observing him. "Sounds fun," she said, "So I suppose you name us all murderers, robbers, rapists, adulterers and practitioners of incest by proxy? I might be a courtesan, but even I have standards … depending on the price."

If she were a man, Lelouch thought, he would challenge her to a duel. But she was not, and so words would have to suffice. "No, Madame," he said. "I name you all naïfs and ignoramuses … yet."

"Then I suppose you have made discoveries that make us all look virgin compared to you," Cecilia joked.

And that was it. Lelouch supposed that Cecilia was merely teasing – she could not know – but it still hurt. How had it come to this? How could he, not even an entire month after it had happened, talk about her at a party, as though she were not present? For she was present, doubtless, as she always was by his side, only intangible, inaudible, not there to aid him, but still judging him and holding safe his vow (_Forgive me, Nunnally!_)

Mao Dupole frowned and nodded, appearing concerned. "Indeed," he said in a smooth baritone, "you _are _wearing mourning, signor. Might we ask what ill fortunes you encountered on your journey?"

– and Lelouch relaxed his mien into an expressionless mask, tightly gripped the armrests of his chair and said: "None. None at all." – and asked for the forgiveness that would not come. Matthew 26:34, Mark 14:30, Luke 22:34, John 13:38. Verily I say unto thee that this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. – and cried bitterly. Should have, wanted to, but would not. He tightly gripped the armrests of his chair.

Lelouch could not tell if they believed him. In any case, they quickly changed topic. Someone brought up Gino's recently published collection of poems, and the Prussian was bullied of reading from them, to everyone's delight. There was a long discussion of the poems, and then of literature in general, and then of all the arts. Lelouch kept to himself, throwing in a remark once in a while but remaining silent otherwise. Occasionally, he believed to see Cecilia's eyes flicker over to him, but he paid little heed to it.

As the bells of Venice's innumerable churches rang two o'clock, many of the guests departed, until only the hostess, Dupole, Gino and Kallen, Haliburton and Lelouch remained. "Come to think of it," Haliburton said, "why do you hold this large a salon if you spend all your time with the handful of us? Does seem like quite a waste of money to me."

Cecilia laughed pleasantly. "Oh, Rolo," she playfully chided, "you're so English," (Haliburton mumbled something about being Scottish), "to think only about the money … why, you could be Venetian!" There were some chuckles, then she turned serious again. "To be frank … they bore me. They are important, yes, and that is why I invite them, but I find it hard to find anything interesting about the great majority of them. Hence, I offer them a forum to talk – plain talk for plain people. They get a glimpse of me and are entertained, I make lots of influential friends and at the same time spend most of my time with interesting people. Everyone ends up happy."

Dupole laughed and put his arms around Cecilia. Lelouch had to admit that he found the patrician rather likeable. Nevertheless, he found the scene somewhat disturbing. Enviable, perhaps. Even more enviable, though quite understandable, was the fact that Cecilia let him and responded by moving closer to her lover.

And so – slowly, languid as all in this city was, yet peaceful, pleasure – the evening ended. "It was wonderful to have you here," Cecilia told Lelouch as they parted. "You absolutely must come again, Monsieur."

"With the greatest of pleasures, Madame," he said, and he meant it. Little rather than that, in fact, though there was a curious expression indeed on Haliburton's face.

And thus they stepped aboard their gondola, with torches and lamps making the waters of the Grand Canal glimmer and shine like a thousand diamonds, to the sound of waves against wooden pillars, in the distance, strings and, high above, an oboe, and Lelouch thought to see Cecilia's face behind the bright-lit window of her salon, smiling at them (at him) as the gondolier pushed off and they gently glided into the distance.

_Forgive me, Nunnally._

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Please review._  
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	8. The Regatta

**Author's notes moved to the bottom. Anonymous Review replies still up here.  
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Half this chapter was written after I had my rejection letter from Oxford. Guess where the break is, because I forgot myself.

** booksmart: **Thank you a lot for your very detailed reviews! I am glad you're enjoying it and hope you will read on. I'd also be very glad if you would make an account, since I find it somewhat unnerving to have to wait until the next chapter to reply to such great reviews such as yours. It just feels as if I'm leaving you hanging.

On Lelouch's religion, you are very right, and I had been planning to have another chapter dealing with his religious views soon (perhaps even the next Lelouch chapter) since it is completely unacceptable as of now. First of all, I must deny in the strongest that Lelouch has committed apostasy. He still believes in God, perhaps - for reasons of simplicity - even more so than before. The main difference is that he no longer believes in a benevolent God; he has become a maltheist. Even though I do not imagine Lelouch to have been particularly interested in theology, he certainly has at some point heard an attempted rebuttal of theodicy. However, you have to consider his situation. He has just lost his sister, who meant the world to him, and nearly his life. At the moment, his judgement is diluted by grief and rage. Still, that is nothing Pater Victor could not have alleviated - but note that he is the mean parish priest of a village of barely 800 inhabitants. The case of Nunnally poses great difficulties, and it is unlikely that he has the intellectual capabilities, not to mention the education, of making up a proper (and still gentle) counterargument on his own. Though the Counter-Reformation did great things for parishioners' education, they were still for the most part far worse schooled than nowadays. But, as I said, Lelouch is in Venice now and I shall make him do some reconsideration in his next chapter. He _is _stubborn, though, and I want him to one day say "You ask for my faith, sir, I say I shall adhere to whatever faith you shall want me to. I can be Catholic, Anglican, even Mohammedan, depending on your needs" to a certain Anglo-Irish general. I daresay my personal faith or rather lack thereof does not play into this, since Nunnally is and shall remain an apathetic weak theist and Cecilia a devout Catholic. Thanks for pointing me to Genesis 9:6, by the way. As you will notice, I am not nearly as firm in my knowledge of the Bible as I would like to be, though it's sufficient to make an argument for atheism.

Moving on to your next review. The frequenting of prostitutes did not bear the same connotations as it does today in the 18th Century. While one would of course not mention in it polite society (contrary to scathological humour, whatever else _Amadeus _might tell you), it was generally considered to be perfectly normal for a young gentleman, though it would have been frowned upon if he had been married. This is, I believe, due to the class divide; whereas an affair with a lady of society would be considered scandalous if pursued in the open, prostitutes, servants, and peasant girls would not have been worth mentioning. You sound as if you are an opera aficionado/a, then you will certainly know The Marriage of Figaro. The fact that Beaumarchais could have the count sleeping around and toying with the idea of introducing the droit-de-seigneur just serves to show what 18th century Paris (and, by way of adaptation, Vienna) thought of rural nobility. It is hard to believe that it should have been different in the cities. Venice in particular had always been rather liberal in its attitudes to sex. Lord Norwich, I believe, mentions homosexual brothels in the Renaissance, and relates an estimate according to which up to five per cent of Venice's total population were either noble or bastards of nobles in the 1600s. Our current attitude towards men who frequent prostitutes stems largely from Victorian morals. Lelouch's sexual experiences I took as a given, in his time, "A Man Is Not A Virgin" was in full effect and even enforced ("TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Vocabulary"). Peasant girls and servant maids, correspondingly, were unlikely to be both pretty and virginal in their late teens.

Be assured that Kallen will be Chekhov's Gunman. It will take a few decades, sure, but she will be of importance again. I just dislike writing her. Also, you are of course correct concerning the quote. In fact, this fic contains quite some quotes (I prefer to call them homage, but one might just as well call them rip-offs). What springs to mind is _Die Walküre _in chapter 2. This chapter doesn't have much, except for "Pax tibi Marce Evangelista mea", which was the motto of the Republic of Venice. I shall try and note them down in the author's notes from now on.

In any case, many thanks for your reviews. It would make me very happy to see you [make an account] continue enjoying this fic and write another review once in a while!

**samxtham: **Thank you, too, for your review. I'm really glad you're enjoying this as much as I am. I was a bit unsure about the previous chapter - in particular, it seemed to be only exposition without any real advancement of the story in a fic that is already bloated as it is (my current plan has about 70 to 75 chapters, that is, if I can handle Waterloo in two chapters and then get Nunnally and Suzaku to London without too much bloodshed). I hope you're not disappointed that my reply to your review is so short this time, but you didn't really ask any questions and I'm embarrassed by so much praise. Thank you so much!

And now, please enjoy ...

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**The Regatta**

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_Venice, 2__nd__ September 1792_

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Venice, after all, was a city in, of, and by the water. Her people moved around the lagoon in boats much like the Viennese or Parisians might use coaches, and so were all goods transported by boat. Venice had no walls, nor fortresses, either – her defence were the lagoon and her navy. Whenever Venetian armies had undertaken to fight those of her Italian neighbours, she had been hard-pressed to save herself; but when she sent out her fleets, her enemies had trembled.

Indeed, it had been the Lagoon that had given birth to her, offering refuge to those for whom the mainland had become to dangerous. Come, she had said, come into my arms and nourish me, and none I shall let pass to harm you. But to you, I shall give great commerce and prosperous industry. Through your city's blood shall flow the deep blue water of the Adriatic, wooden planks shall be firm as rocks to you. In return, Venice had wed herself to the sea, a bond renewed annually when the Doge cast a consecrated gold ring into the Adriatic on the day of the Feast of the Annunciation.

Accordingly, it was only natural that Venice's games should be based around the sea. Much like the youths of Greece fought for their city's glory at Olympia, the men of Venice enjoyed themselves at exercises at the oars they would have to man in times of war, and once in a while sportive competition took the place of powder smoke and fixed bayonets. And all this cumulated annually on 2nd September, at the Republic's grand regatta.

There would be four races: first, the _Regata dei Giovanissimi _for young men aged 14 to 18, rowing nine boats two men apiece; then the _Regata delle Donne _for nine times two women in traditional fishing boats; after that, the _Regata delle Caorline _in which seven boats from the communes of Venice and the lagoon, six oars each, would compete. And finally, nine two-oars gondolas would compete for money and the right to display the Banner of St. Mark on the rowers' houses. Since no gentlewoman should ever arrive on time for an event, and Cecilia aspired to be one, she would disregard the first three races.

And yet, those were the pastimes and entertainment of the mob. What made the regattas important was that they were a central part of Venetian identity, and a central part of the social year, rivalled only by the Marriage of the Sea and extraordinary events such as the inauguration of a new Doge. Accordingly, tribunes had been erected by the waterside. The owners of houses and palazzi by the Grand Canal offered their windows to invited and paying guests – but that was missing the point, for a true citizen of Venice would not watch from land. And accordingly, the Basin of San Marco and the Grand Canal were swarming with gondolas and small boats, some docked at the moles, but more being steered in the open water. But all had in common that the ladies and gentlemen aboard were dressed as though the occasion were a première at the opera or a state ceremony.

Cecilia always liked to watch them, certain in the knowledge that she would trump them even in rags. She had never quite grown used to being surrounded by splendour, even though she had gotten good at faking the nonchalant attitude of those raised in luxury and nobility. Hence, she was still filled with childlike excitement at the opulent dresses of the ladies, the sparkling jewellery and painted fans. For herself, however, she had never desired the mark of decadence. As a child, she had been lucky to possess a second dress for church, and had only risen to affluence in the mid-80s. At the time, the queen of France had started a fashion (and a scandal) of wearing light, shapeless white gowns in the manner of Greece. Obviously Cecilia had jumped at the fashion, perhaps the first woman in Venice to do so. With time, and inspiration from the Ancients, that fashion had become ever more simple, light, and flattering. She could feel other women's glares and men's lingering gazes upon her skin, and took pride in it.

To dress had become more than just a necessity, or even a commodity: it had become an expression of a mindset. While more conservative women had themselves be choked by corsets and disabled by annoying petticoats, her tailors evoked ancient Athens, and their works were a linen cry for liberty. Today, she'd had made for the occasion a white muslin dress gathered at the waist, hemmed with blue wave patterns, worn with a matching shawl, white gloves and rather modest hat. But women were not the only ones touched by the changing tides of fashion and, by extensions, the political implications of dress. As a gentleman's waistcoat shortened, his coat's patterns and colours became more subdued, he professed himself to be part of an entirely new brand of man. Accordingly, a pleased smile played around her very lightly painted lips when she stepped down into the cool atrium of her palazzo to find her companion waiting for her, as always impeccably dressed. Rolo really seemed to have an eye for colours, patterns and cloths that pleased the eye and flattered the wearer's build and complexion, while being unobtrusive and simple. Well, it had to be Rolo, for she could not imagine his Spanish guest to pay much attention to his attire.

"Good morning, Madame," Lamperouge said with only the slightest indication of a bow. She reached out her hand and he kissed it. "I hope you are well." He wore a plain blue single-breasted coat with silver buttons, a buff waistcoat, white breeches and silk stockings, black lacquered shoes, white stock and cravat, a silver-hilted smallsword and a dark blue bicorne folded under his arm. He wore his ink-black hair natural and queued, having eschewed wigs as soon as he'd arrived in Venice. _We will yet make a proper friend of liberty of you_, Cecilia thought, smirking. Oh, not to forget the obligatory black ribbon around his left upper arm, whatever mourning it might signify.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "It would be ghastly to watch the regatta all alone. Shall we?"

They stepped out of the atrium into the bright sunlight and Lamperouge took her hand to help her into the waiting gondola. "I suppose Mao is to busy to join you?"

"He and his wife have been invited to join His Serenity the Doge aboard the _machina_. It is a great honour." The _machina _was a floating platform reserved for the Republic's notables in front of Ca' Foscari, where the races would end. Mao being invited to spend the day there in the company of the Doge meant that he was slowly gaining influence in both councils.

"Oh, has he? I shall congratulate him next time we meet." Ever since he had first attended her salon in April, he had been a regular guest at Ca' Rezzonico, though he had retained his reactionary opinions. Out of courtesy, Cecilia had done her best to guide the salon's discussion away from politics, but once in a while she would stray from her good intentions and engage Lamperouge in a political discussion. He did not seem to hold it against her. In the meantime, she had noticed that Lelouch, Rolo and Gino had become something akin to friends.

They boarded the gondola and sat in the open seats before the cabin and the rower slowly punted them away from the palace. As their boat joined the stream of boats headed to the Arsenale, where the races would start, a slightly awkward silence presented itself. _Well, he's not very talkative_, Cecilia though to herself, tracing the intricate carvings on the gondola's rail with her fingers, _But I always knew it'd be I who'd do most of the talking_. The problem, of course, was finding a topic. There was one issue that she would have loved to tease him with, but what good were resolutions if one did not stick to them? She could of course talk about the regatta, or the weather, something like that, and see where it would take them, but it lacked elegance.

It should not have been this hard for her to start a conversation. She was, after all, a courtesan. And, though Lamperouge seemed to have had that first impression, a courtesan was no whore. Otherwise, no gentleman of wealth and taste would bother with what he could have much cheaper elsewhere. Mere intercourse, no matter how luxurious, no matter how intricate, was not worth the price a man was willing to pay for a proper Venetian courtesan. Cecilia herself read and wrote in four languages, and spoke six. She played the piano and sang, when required to, and danced. She could charm giants like Rousseau or Voltaire with her conversation, and was of course as well-read as any gentleman. She understood the politics of the civilised world as any representative of the _case vecchie_, perhaps more so in these times of decline. As for the carnal part of her job – well, she was quite a notable athlete.

No: a famed courtesan, as she was, could not be farther from a lowly tavern wench. She would never sell her body to drown her sorrows in wine, she had long vowed; would never bear a child who would be forced to live as she did. She was no whore.

But she was getting sidetracked, and Lamperouge appeared faintly bored as he watched the Piazzetta glide by to their left, and so she quickly took up the topic she had discarded earlier: "Say, signore, did you read the papers? Did you perchance hear about the proceedings in Paris?"

"You mean the king?," Lamperouge asked, seeming interested. "Last I heard, the mob was besieging the Tuileries with muskets and cannon and attacking the Swiss Guard. There was talk of abdication."

"That was on the tenth," Cecilia replied, grinning. "Of 950 Swiss mercenaries and a similar number of traitorous National Guard guarding the tyrant, only a hundred now remain. The king, queen and Dauphin have been seized by the Paris Commune, and imprisoned in the Temple. The monarchy is suspended, the Legislative Assembly dissolved and elections to a National Convention called, which appears to be set to abolish the monarchy. This is a great and glorious victory for liberty."

"For tyranny, you mean," Lamperouge dissented.

"What is that supposed to mean? Do explain."

"I'm just saying that a just and gracious king, as Louis XVI has ever been, is the best surety for order and true liberty, that is, the liberty to retain one's life and possessions without interference. It should be self-evident that France has descended the further into chaos the more power the king lost. Already, the rabble is attacking soldiers, and dispersed the last bastion against anarchy, the Assembly, after the king."

Cecilia cackled – then cursed herself and broke off. She really needed to restrain herself more; that laughter, natural though it came, did not fit the image she wanted to cultivate. Lamperouge thankfully did not seem to notice. Hence, she quickly said: "You know my arguments. This chaos, the king brought upon himself by obstructing the efforts of the Assembly and conspiring with the Austrians to enslave the French nation once again. No one would have died had the Swiss Guard not fired into the crowd."

"You're not taking yourself very seriously, are you? Anyway, they were faced with an attempt to abduct and incarcerate the king, ordained by God, whom they had sworn to defend. Their task is to maintain public order, and it was the only correct thing to do. It was the mob that provoked them."

Their gondola halted before the wide sea gates of the Arsenale, the great dockyard of the Republic of _Inferno _fame. Already, a fleet of small boats full of eager spectators had assembled. There was much chatter and laughter. "Still," Cecilia said, "if their intent had not been to crush the will of the French people at all costs, they would not have shot. Of course, no mercenary, no soldier of the _ancien regime _ever thinks for himself; or, if he does, he is not allowed to voice his thoughts. Accordingly, they must have been ordered, and from whom does the Swiss Guard receive orders, if not the king? When they stormed the Tuileries, they found certain proof of the treason the king … rather, the _citoyen _Louis Capet has perpetrated, in the form of letters to the emperor, his brother-in-law. He has hindered the French war effort at every opportunity, and thus caused the blood of Frenchmen to flow … oh, there they come!"

In a solemn procession, nine brightly-painted slender gondolas emerged from the Arsenale. A cheer arose, and a small chamber orchestra on a barge nearby intoned the final chorus of Vivaldi's _Juditha triumphans_. Hail thee, Judith, unvanquished, formidable, glorious … The foremost boat carried the red-and-gold banner of St. Mark at its stern, indicating the borough whose boat had won last year; behind the others streamed silken flags in yellow, violet, blue, red, green, orange, pink and maroon. Each was manned by two young men dressed in their team's colour, waving at the spectators. Cecilia briefly explained the modus operandi of the race to Lamperouge as the boats took positions in a long line perpendicular to the wharf. Then, a cannon was fired from the ramparts of the fortress on the Lido, and off they were. "How curious," Lamperouge noted, "it does seem rather queer to have races upon the water as others would upon the land."

"I understand they do it as well at the universities of England. Presumably dear Rolo will know quite a lot more about it." Their gondolier began to punt fast to pursue the racers.

"I suppose you are born here, then?"

For a while, Cecilia remained silent. This was not a question she had been asked before, not a question she should have imagined to be asked. Objectively, it was plain and not too disrupted from their conversation. A simple "yes" would have sufficed to answer; and yet: it was far more complicated. Cecilia held great pride in being quite probably the most professional courtesan in all of Venice. She did not talk about herself, and did not inquire about her clients' background if they did not speak of themselves. Her professionalism, however, had never really been tested. Just like she did not care about her clients, her clients cared not about her. And that was why it was so hard to answer Lamperouge's question; she was simply not used to it and knew not what to say. She stuttered something, momentarily flustered, and for the first time in ages felt a real blush upon her cheeks. Then she regained her composure, and said: "Yes, indeed." But that didn't feel quite right, seemed incomplete and unsatisfying. Hence, she added: "I was born and grew up in Venice. In fact, I have barely ever been on the _terra firma_; and feel at unease whenever I am. What can I say, I am a patriot; and the _terra firma _is but an appendix to her who rules the azure main."

Lamperouge chuckled. Their boat passed the Piazzetta; the twin white granite columns carrying the statues of the Lion of St. Mark and St. Theodore, respectively, shone brightly in the sunlight. "I would have taken you for a traveller," her companion confessed.

"Not at all, I fear. Venice, it seems to me, has all to offer that life has to offer. He who is sick of Venice must be sick of life … why leave her, then? You, Monsieur, came here half a year ago, en route to Austria, and yet have remained. Our dear Gino came to find inspiration, and has found it and, what's more, love. And Mr Haliburton came as a grand tourist and made Venice his new home. There is a certain addictive quality to our _Serenissima_."

Lamperouge grimaced and murmured something that sounded rather like "that's what I fear," but Cecilia ignored it. Instead, she moved outside of their boat's tiny cabin on one of the benches in the open, and her companion obligingly followed. "I don't suppose, then," Lamperouge deadpanned, "that you yearn to see the world, feel the thrill of adventure in your veins, and whatever else my lord Gino and his colleagues might endeavour to imagine?"

Cecilia smiled at this. "You saw the world," she softly said. The implication was obvious: no man was born this downhearted, this dark of mind. Not once had she seen Lamperouge laugh genuinely; and when he did chuckle or smile, it was bitter and sharpened with dry and often insulting wit.

"Indeed," Lamperouge gravely said after a pause. His gaze was shadowed and distant, looking out at the crumbling façade of Ca' Pesaro-Papafava. "I did see the world."

And, though she had foreseen that reply, Cecilia deeply regretted asking. Now she had ruined the mood, and that was more than simply unprofessional: indeed, in her business, it was a mortal sin! Forcing herself to close her eyes and breathe slowly, Cecilia re-examined her options. What, after all, was at stake? Lamperouge was no client of hers and probably never would be, merely company for the day. Well, rather pleasant company, but at least there was no money at stake. Nevertheless, she would rather Lamperouge be happy. _Because the opposite would be unprofessional. Of course_.

Before them, the racing boats had long since gone out of sight, their gondolier being unable to keep up. That, of course, was to be expected, and since they would turn at the landside end

To their left, Ca' Foscari emerged, the crumbling Gothic palazzo being merely hidden by a grand wooden tribune floating in the canal, three tiers of bleached wood, velvet cushions and a small orchestra balancing their instruments aboard a tiny boat moored to the platform's size. Assembled on this appropriately named _machina _was most of the Republic's body politic. The Doge and Dogaressa between the six gentlemen of the Signoria, doddering old fools that they were, seated in gilded thrones in the front row, sporting robes of state; much of the Senate; the State Inquisitors and the rest of the Ten, barring the three currently residing in the Doge's Palace. Also, several patricians from the Grand Council who had recently gained favour or political momentum and were thus courted by the Signoria as future allies or opponents. That included, of course, Mao.

Cecilia had to admit she was faintly interested in seeing his wife. She knew it had been a marriage of convenience, arranged by the pair's families – while the Dupoles had only recently bought their patent of nobility, Mao's wife was from an ancient family ubiquitous in the history books, which had, however, recently fallen into financial difficulties. A reasonable and beneficial match.

It took her a moment to spot Mao. He was sitting on a cushion in second row, talking to the Doge on his throne before him, laughing widely. Next to him sat a portly woman with mouse-brown hair and an unfavourable green dress, looking bored. She might have been pretty once, if not for a severe lack of ancestors. The state of the marriage was obvious.

"Look, there he is," Lamperouge unnecessarily pointed out.

Cecilia closed her eyes. "Would you mind not calling attention to us?"

Her companion frowned, then leaned back in his seat. "Of course not. May I ask …"

"_Because_," Cecilia hissed back, "that is his _wife _next to him. And I would rather not cause a fuss; that is unless you, Monsieur, wish to go for a swim in the Canal." There was a brief moment of silence between them. Lamperouge looked mildly amused.

Cecilia could have hated herself as she slowly sat down again, folding her hands in her lap. Though she had known her many flaws, and tried to fight them, for dozens of years, she had not succeeded. And this awful tendency to leash out at people was her greatest: for a courtesan's supreme task, and a gentlewoman's basest duty, was to be pleasant company. Decorum, composure, wit and a certain degree of hauteur were required for that. She certainly possessed the latter two, but it was at occasions such as these where it became painfully obvious that she still had a long way to go. That there was more to acquiring gentle status than being financially independent. Realising this once more, she was overcome with a deep sense of helplessness. Two great hurdles had arisen where previously only one had been, each greater than the other. She looked at Lamperouge; he understood, she could see. _He _appeared to be the very epitome of the gentleman of a new age that was just arising; out of his luck and displaced, but still clinging to better times; darkly handsome, charismatic, sophisticated, intelligent, but beyond that passionate, even zealous, arrogant and cynic, and, at the same time she could sense that he was ruthless, melancholy, brooding.

There it was: no matter how admirable the façade, no matter how elaborate the lie (for lack of a better word), they were deeply flawed creatures. She could see that he understood. For a brief moment, Cecilia and Mr Lamperouge were united in that mutual (imagined?) understanding. And so, she could finally speak openly: "The truth is," she finally said, much quieter, far less forceful than before, "that I do not particularly want to see Mao, either."

Her companion looked at her from a pair of piercing deep purple eyes, as if to silently ask her to continue. "I mean … I don't _dislike _him or anything … it's just …" She broke off, quietly pleading for him to understand as she understood him.

Lamperouge merely nodded. "Please, continue." These purple eyes she had thought were so deep and expressive suddenly were books with seven seals each. Incomprehensible to her, but still vaguely sympathetic: I understand what you say, they assured her, and though you may not know my purposes, I am on your side.

Cecilia sighed deeply. Outside of the little world of their gondola, a great cheer arose as the first of the racing boats – the one carrying the maroon flag, from the borough of Dorsoduro – came into sight beyond the Palazzi Mocenigo. "May I speak freely, Monsieur?," she asked. "Will my next words remain between the two of us?"

"You have my word as a gentleman, Madame."

"Mao is the greatest idiot I have ever slept with. He has all the intellectual capabilities of an empty tortoise shell, on a good day. He can make a fine argument only when it has previously been spoon-fed to him. It is completely sufficient to stand above the inbred imbeciles ruling my beloved Republic, of course, but in all other regards he is mediocre. He thinks his jests are delightful, his opinions valued, his voice pleasant, his touches desired, his arguing sound … when, in fact, the truth could never be farther from it. Were I to choose between Mao Dupole and some nameless sans-culotte in rags and stink, I should be glad to choose the latter. His only redeeming feature is his purse. He also thinks that I am his, bound in love and obligation, and that he has to protect me from the longing of men like Monsieur or Gino or Rolo or whosoever, and accordingly displays a rabid jealousy more befitting of a bitch fighting for a bone than of a noble of the Venetian Republic. Was that clear enough, Monsieur?"

Lamperouge closed his mouth. Then, he chuckled. "Why, I do believe so. I suppose I don't know Mr Dupole well enough to argue either case. However …" He hesitated, clearly not wanting to intrude. She wondered what he might say in Mao's defence. In the end, it was nothing of the sort. "If that is what you think, why do you put up with him? Surely there must be other men willing to, er, employ you?"

Cecilia rolled her eyes. How fitting. "You have obviously never lived in poverty, Monsieur. He is rich, richer in fact than some sovereign princes. I would not live the life I live if not for him. I have my salon for entertainment. And that is all there is to it."

From dark eyes Lamperouge stared at her. She avoided his gaze, looked out at the canal. The Dorsoduro boat had been overtaken by the boat from Chioggia, which now crossed the finish line first to the cheers of the spectators from the neighbouring commune in the Lagoon and the utter dismay of the followers of the boroughs of Venice proper. Lamperouge spoke, calm, yet somewhat bitter. "There is no poverty so deep that it would justify selling your body, Madame."

And, of course, the Spaniard was too polite to pronounce it, but the implication was clear. _Like a common whore_. Cecilia gnarled her teeth. Forgotten were composure and grace, forgotten too good manners and pleasantness. She would _not _be insulted thus. When had she ever given Lamperouge any reason to do so? Though he may have been of gentle birth, and she of base, _she _was a proud citizen of the greatest city that ever was or would be. Lamperouge was a provincial Spaniard, probably the younger son of some nobleman, had spent his nights fucking peasant girls and never known true pleasure before coming to Venice, even in the basest sense. Handsome and intriguing though he might be, he had no right at all to call her thus.

_She was no whore!_

Her fists were clenched tightly, it hurt, manicured fingernails drew some blood. Images of days long suppressed conjured before her inner eye, of shame, filth, and disgrace. Never, never would she relive them. "Monsieur," she hissed through her teeth. She could feel that Lamperouge was deeply unsettled by her sudden change in behaviour, but she did not care. "I must ask you to leave me at once." They were still in the middle of the canal, she noticed. Whatever.

Lamperouge's brow furrowed. Did he really not understand? Where had all the brilliance she had seen before gone? "… Madame …?"

Then, she exploded. "How dare you!," she hissed at him, "I will_ not _be insulted thus! I trusted you, I invited you into my house! Is that how you repay me? You may have been raised amongst uncivilised savages, I'll grant you that, but you've been in Venice long enough to learn proper manners! But, alas, such behaviour is apparently epidemic within your kin, for whence else would you have all the decorum and charm of a rapid bitch starving for a bloody bone? If you had any family, I would rather be fed a guillotine's blade at the table of a Cannaregio tanner than dine at their table!" (And Lamperouge's face seemed to darken, and ferocity bore kin,) "And, Monsieur, if you continue like this, I do not know whether you shall die on the gallows or of the pox, but one of those it shall surely be!"

Though her companion had taken the first insults without so much as blinking, somewhere during her rant that had changed. She knew not what had been the trigger, but now his handsome face was distorted with anger. "Well, Madame," he sharply said, "that depends on whether I embrace your principles or your mother."

_Slap_.

"Ah," the gondolier shouted, alarmed, "my lady, you better not –"

_Splash_.

Cecilia barely saw the glistering cyan surface coming towards her. She did feel it, though, a savage kick in the stomach that pressed all the air out of her lungs. Gasped for air, swallowed dirty salt-water. For a brief moment, everything was tinted a deep shape of blue and she knew not up from down, then saw the dark slender silhouettes of the gondolas above her, and then, hazy, fleeting, a bright, bright spot. The sun, she knew, but for a moment it seemed a lion's face. Peace be with you, Mark, my evangelist. It was quite beautiful, but also terrifying. Then, a hand closed around her arm and drew her upwards. She barely felt annoyed as she surfaced, gasping for air.

In front of her, she saw through long green strands of hair obscuring her view, swam Lamperouge, looking thoroughly annoyed. The people in the boats around them were watching with blatant curiosity. "What in the name of Christ was _that _supposed to be?," Lamperouge hissed at her. The gondolier, who had barely been able to stay aboard the shaking boat, reached out his hands to help Cecilia back inside the tiny cabin.

She kept her head low this time, perhaps for the first time in years. Her cheeks were burning in embarrassment. Though she did not hear it, Cecilia could feel the giggles and the stares of the assembled society of Venice around them. _Look at her_, she knew they were saying, _how can such a boorish woman be called a courtesan? No, she's but a _whore …

"Back," Cecilia told the gondolier, speaking loudly on purpose, "Back home. Our clothes are soaked and the races are over." She would not attend any of the balls and dinners this night. At least it seemed as if the Signoria and Mao had not noticed her _faux pas_. She could not look Lamperouge in the eyes, nor could she talk to him. Whore, whore, whore.

The gondolier silently turned the boat and they joined those who left the _machina _behind. The prize-giving ceremonies were coming to an end. She could feel the gazes. Her dress was ruined, sagging from her shoulders, soaking, cold and transparent. Wordlessly, Lamperouge took off his coat and put it over her shoulders. Cecilia felt like she should say something, anything, but all her wit was gone, baffled and muffled by the salty muddy water on her tongue. It had been ages since she had last swum in the canals, a dozen years, at the very least, and then it had been a child's play. She thought she had wanted to kill Lamperouge for his words, and thought it was very unreasonable. Very unprofessional, too. She said: – she said nothing, for now.

The Grand Canal stretched out before them. It wasn't actually that far from Ca' Foscari to her own Ca' Rezzonico, but it seemed like forever. Why didn't Lamperouge say anything? He should have said something, it was his fault, after all. Awkward.

The lion had taken her anger, it seemed, St. Mark had taken it from her (couldn't he who had brought water to the Cenacle for the Lord's last supper provide her with sweeter drink?). Perhaps they were right. As a courtesan, she had never been met with scorn not of her own choice, had been a well-respected lady of society. A whore? A courtesan sans decorum? Wholly different. Hence, it made sense. She said: "I am sorry."

Lamperouge nodded grimly. The black ribbon on the coat around her shoulders seemed to burn. "Pray forgive me. That was … that was unprofessional behaviour."

He grimaced. "It was my fault," he finally admitted. "It is me who should be sorry."

"Not at all." _Yes_.

Another moment of silence. Long, far too long to be pleasant. A day brilliantly ruined. She wondered if Lamperouge would return to her weekly salon, which he had not missed but once since April, and thought that she would greatly miss him. He had been a wonderful distraction from the usual discussions, which tended to – oh, she loved Kallen like a sister, and Gino and Mario and Floria and Nina and all the others were delightful company, dazzling and exciting, but for all their wit, everything soon settled into normality with them. Lamperouge – she dared say he was different, As though she could never tire of him.

"May I ask you a question, Madame?"

"Certainly," she quietly replied, for it was a cheap apology, but better than none, "if I can answer it."

"Do you even care?"

Cecilia frowned. "If you mean what happened just now …"

"No. Well, I suppose it plays into it. Rather … Madame, if I may say so, it seems you are detached from all and everything around you. Though you are always the centre of a crowd, you are never truly part of it, whereas it is self-evident that you could become part of any crowd you wished to. I do not understand why you detach yourself thus. Could it be you are afraid to be hurt?"

She cackled bitterly. Quite frankly, she didn't care about refinement now. "No," she then replied. "I don't think so, at least, and I should know." Cecilia considered the question. Though she did not like to admit it, Lamperouge's description of herself was sound – and in fact, not too dissimilar to what she had thought just a moment ago. Nevertheless, it was highly uncomfortable. To be admired and wooed, she knew no greater pleasure. _Look at me_, she had always wanted to scream out at the city and all its people, _here I am, treading in your midst, and you would kiss my feet which you once despised and spit on. _Her rise, though convenient in its own right, meant nothing without acknowledgement. Hence, she would have to be a socialite, but what indeed if she had never become a member of that society she claimed to be part of? It sounded just about right.

And the reason? Surely she was not afraid to be hurt; all her weak points were carefully shielded and her weapon of choice, wit, sharp as a razor. Was then her shield nothing but apathy? It seemed far too cruel to be true. Was she not passionate about her ambitions, about liberty and equality? But that clearly was not what Lamperouge was asking. But she had promised to reply, and reply she would. "I find it hard to answer your query, Monsieur," Cecilia said. "There is truth in your words, I fear. I … I barely care anymore. I do not know the cause, though. If I had to guess – and I fear I shall have to –, I'd ascribe my apathy to boredom."

Lamperouge nodded. There was a silence of some continuance. She looked at him; tried to read his expression. He did seem satisfied, but not overly happy, either. Cecilia wished he would say something to make clear his thoughts; she had never been good at reading people, another flaw that set her apart from her ideal of what a _professional_ courtesan ought to be. "I understand," Lamperouge finally said. "If that is indeed the case – if Madame's suffering is due to boredom – and, perhaps, isolation – I shall relieve both."

She grimaced. "What are your intentions, Monsieur?"

"I was unaware I needed to state my intentions," Lamperouge replied, perhaps a bit too quickly for her taste.

"Nothing, Monsieur, is for free. Whatever foolish undertaking you are plotting to relieve me of whatever you presume, there surely is a hook attached. You would not aid me if not to aid yourself."

He sighed. "I swear to God, I have no ulterior motives. Unless you count the obvious, but do I need a reason, Madame, to yearn to see you happy?"

Looking at her companion, Cecilia knew not what to think. What on Earth was he talking about? Moments ago, she had thrown him into the muddy waters of the canal after he had gravely insulted her. And for the past four months they had barely done anything but fighting on this or that issue, to the point that Nina had recently been making excuses rather than join them at her salon. No one else treated her with the same disrespect and brazenness. If anything, she would have trusted him to dislike her, which caused her considerable displeasure. Could it be, after all, that he … no, she dared not think it. She had thought the same of the gentleman who had first raised her from the gutter, until she realised that his affections were a sign of lust, not of caring, and she would not make the same mistake another time. But, still (a subversive voice lurking somewhere in the back of her head prompted) … could it be that he, could it be that Lelouch _cared_ for her?

"I shall make you happy," he repeated. "I promise. This shall be my penance."

* * *

Aaaaand that's it for today. I find it rather hard to write Cecilia properly, mainly because I have no experience at all with her and am rarely witty in real life, but also because she's just so different from Lelouch and Nunnally. Both of those are (currently) angsty teenagers obsessing over each other, vengeance, and whatnot, which in itself makes for some fun writing. Cecilia, meanwhile, is much more worldwise than either of them. Contrary to them, she grew up in the lower classes and basically had to sleep her way up. The memories of her past in poverty, or rather, the constant fear of being compared to her (spoiler alert) mother still haunt her, but it is safe to assume that Cecilia, at age 20, has found a purpose in life and a way of dealing with things. Cue Lelouch to mess both up.

The regatta is based off the _Regata storica_ (historical regatta), a race taking place in Venice every year on the first Sunday of September, originating in the 15th Century. I have taken some liberties with how precisely it works, for example, the coloured streamers were introduced only in the 1850s and updated to what I described under the Savoyard kingdom.

While researching for this chapter, I found some very interesting information on the public image of prostitutes and courtesans in early modern Venice. It appears that prostitutes where treated much like anywhere else, whereas a courtesan's job description did not even necessarily include sex, they were often married, usually well-born, and also treated much like any lady of society. The distinction between them, however, is fleeting, and this further fuels Cecilia's minority complex.

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Please review :D


	9. Stand and Deliver

I know I'm late alright. I've been studying for pre-exams, and also playing a lot of Assassin's Creed (in fact, I finished AC2 scarce twenty minutes ago. Gods, my mind hurts). Hope the wait was somewhat bearable /irony

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**Stand and Deliver**

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_Catalonia, October 1792_

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Time, she had found out, did not in fact heal all wounds.

It did, however, make things easier. She had been mildly shocked to realise that she had settled into her new life and a new routine remarkably easy, with the support of Todo and Lelouch. _It is a basic requirement of life, _the latter had said with that slightly bored drawl that was so typical of him when spouting philosophy, _Adaptability. If you can't change something, learn to live with it._

One cloudy July afternoon, she had unbuckled the rapier that had been her mother's and now was hers from her waist. It was still beautiful, it sang to her from its black leather scabbard. But Todo had been right, it was a weapon for a more civilised age. Hence, she had carefully wrapped the sword into the tattered overcoat she had used for a blanket on their "adventure" and buckled it tightly to Nemo's saddle. The men had silently watched her as Todo rode up to her, took off his sabre, and handed it to her. It had been a heavy weapon made for cutting, not thrusting, and it took her a few weeks of training to get used to its weight. "You can thrust with it, but it is better suited to hacking. The weight serves to your advantage," Todo however had said, "Sitting on horseback, gravity lends momentum to your slash." Its blade had a pronounced curve, and widened near the point, with a single broad fuller on each side. The hilt was that of a trooper's sword, simple, iron. She had looked at Todo from expressionless eyes, as she had always looked at her captors and companions, and nodded, hoping he would take it as thanks. Todo had nodded back, turned his horse and returned to the front of their small column.

They were twenty-nine gentlemen of the road, one young gentlewoman, and thirty-five horses. By the standards of their profession, they were many, perhaps too many – most highwaymen worked alone, in pairs, or in groups of no more than five. Any more would be taking risks. But Todo, who had assembled the band, had reasoned differently. During the Seven Years' War, he had served in a Spanish regiment of dragoons and participated in the invasion of Portugal, and later, in the American War of Independence, fought in the Great Siege of Gibraltar, and had left the army in the rank of sergeant. During the former, his unit's task had been reconnaissance in the difficult terrain of the Portuguese borderlands, and from there he had taken the experience that knowing the enemy's positions was half the battle won. Accordingly, he had divided his ragtag band of outlaws into small groups, some of whom would guard the primary roads and passes, waiting for promising victims, whereas others remained in position, waiting for a signal from the look-outs before stopping any travellers. On occasion, when they were facing a larger group of travellers, they could all join to overpower them nonetheless. They hid their faces and, all mounted, were gone as suddenly as they had arrived. Their loot was shared equally. It was a curious system, more military in fact than one would have believed possible with so undisciplined an army, but it worked.

They moved camp about three to four times a week, circling between some two dozen spots – caves, clearings, cliffs –, some with hidden stores of gunshot and powder. They were spread out in the Catalonian Pyrenees, about a dozen leagues apart each. Before moving camp, Todo sent out a rider to reconnoitre their route. She had heard some of the men complain about this cautiousness, but Nunnally figured it was just this which kept them from the gallows.

The band – perhaps, the troop – was a tight-knit one. Some of the men had been together for five years or more. Ogi and Tamaki were childhood friends, and had served under Todo, who had been born near Madrid, at Gibraltar. Most of the others hailed from a few small, poor peasant villages clinging to the rocky mountainsides of Catalonia, and had known each other before. Their mutual trust made up for want of discipline.

Into this band of brothers, Nunnally had come as an outsider. She did not talk much, but when she did, her refined Castilian accent stood out from the highwaymen's gruff Catalonian dialect like a white horse in a swine trough. She had become timid, and quiet, and kept to herself. But in all other respects, she had grown closer to them: she sat by their fires, slept by their sides, and was even beginning to look like them. When she looked at her reflection in a mountain lake, she did not recognise herself. Her hair hang down her head in long, filthy, dull strands. Her eyes were shadowed and dead. Her lips parched, her face dirty. She was wrapped in rags; the remains of her once-blue coat, a stolen waistcoat with half the buttons ripped off, a shirt as brown as the soil. She had discarded the knee-breeches her brother had given her after the stockings had dissolved into threads, and had instead at the first opportunity robbed an unlucky passerby of a pair of loose ragged trousers and, later, come across a fine pair of hard leather boots. The only thing that remained of the girl who had left Cadiz, the only thing she kept clean when everything else was equal, was her rapier, though she no longer used it on the ban's exploits and in her irregular sparring sessions with Todo. Still, she liked to unwrap it from time to time, weigh it in her hands and feel the cold steel.

She was not sure if her father or her childhood's friends would have recognised her now. Quite probably, they would have wrinkled their noses at her and gone out of their way to avoid her; fearing for what? Robbery, mutilation, death. She was not sure if she recognised herself, had doubted for a while, until she had told Lelouch about it. _You are who you are,_ he had simply said, _and you are who you must be. _That had consoled her. She could have spoken to Todo about it, but she did not want to bother him. Rather, knew what his reply would be: that of her brother, but not as gentle. Though she was a girl – a woman – a highborn lady, and his pupil, he had never held back and hence she had received countless beatings with the broad side of his sabre. She bore it like she bore everything.

She woke, then mounted Nemo. She rode all day until her bottoms hurt, holding people at swordpoint when she was bid to and collected loot when she saw it. _You have to take it. Take what you want_, Todo had said. _Do not hesitate_, Lelouch added. _Do not falter._

That was about it.

Nunnally suppressed a yawn and shifted slightly in her horse's saddle. She would of course not admit it, but she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The quiet whinnying of one of the horses mixed with the rustling of dry leaves and, somewhere, the cry of an owl. Shivering in a cold breeze, she slowly closed the uppermost buttons of her oft-patched greatcoat and turned up the collar. As a child, she had used to be afraid of the dark, and even now closing her gloved hand around the hilt of the sabre belted to her side put her at ease. The greatcoat also held a small pistol – Sugiyama had laughingly declared that a small girl should use a small weapon. She had probably missed the point at which she had ceased being their captive and had become their companion.

To her right, Todo was still and unmoving on his black steed as a stone statue, looking straight ahead. Nunnally felt compelled to hum _Don Giovanni, a cenar teco_, but she bit back the reflex. This was not the moment for it, and hopefully no one would be taken to hell tonight. She also wouldn't have managed to hit the bass, and even the most intimidating aria would sound ridiculous when sung three or four octaves too high. Even so, Todo had something of the Commendatore about him.

They were assembled 17 raiders on horseback, clad in darkness and hiding on on both sides of the road to Barcelona. At this point, it was a deep ravine and they were lined up on the hillslopes on either side. It was well past midnight, but they were awaiting profitable company. Earlier that day, Urabe, who had been on look-out duty along the road, had reported a large carriage moving south towards Barcelona, escorted by six armed riders. It was a gamble, Nunnally knew, and Todo's decision had not come lightly. Many travellers were armed, but usually, none were trained in the use of their weapons or expecting to encounter them. Even if they were, most of their victims were far too scared to fight back. These men, however, probably had some training – a noble's household guard, perhaps, or mercenaries employed for a rich bourgeois' protection. That was why Todo had assembled all of 15 of his men plus himself and Nunnally to take them on, and even then, it was risky. There were, of course, benefits to the prospect of having to share the loot with one less man, but the band _was _a tight-knit one and Todo plainly was of the opinion that the greatest robbery did not justify the loss of even one of them.

_You would do it differently_, Lelouch whispered into her ear. It was a dangerous thought. _You would do what benefits yourself and your oath best, in the long run, without any false compassion_. She should have liked to differ on that – she would never kill a human being out of nought but greed, but Lelouch was insistent._ Take what you want._

Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses and a carriage rumbling along far to her left and Todo unsheathing his sword. His men and Nunnally followed him in drawing their pistols. She straightened her back, glanced at Todo. As ever, his face was a masklike scowl.

Then, she saw the party approaching. Six riders wearing dark caped cloaks and tricornes, flanking a plain four-in-hand manned by a coacher and two – probably armed – footmen in livery, all moving along in a gentle trot. The coach's escorts had apparently realised that their surroundings were ideal for an ambush, and were warily watching the dark wood to their side, hands on sword hilts.

Todo raised his sword, then gestured for his men to charge. Gun in hand, Nunnally spurred Nemo, and with the men galloped out on the open road. She could not remember what had happened then, it had been over in seconds. A shot was fired and for a brief moment the coach was engulfed in powder smoke, but no one cried out in pain. When the smoke had settled, Todo's men had the terrified riders and footmen at swordpoint. "Don't you try anything," Sugiyama told "his" escort while forcing him off his horse. At a sign from Todo, Nunnally slid from Nemo's back, opened the coach's door. Inside was a podgy, bespectacled man with lightly powdered, receding hair, staring back at her from terrified eyes. Nunnally looked back at Todo, took a deep breath, then pointed her gun at the man's head. She said: "Stand and deliver, Señor."

From the inside of his coat, the man produced a silk neckerchief to wipe his brow with. Then he gulped audibly and motioned for her to step aside from the door and let him out. Again she looked at Todo, unsure what to do, and he nodded. She stepped aside, but continued to hold the man at gunpoint.

The man stepped out of the coach. Someone had lit a torch, lighting the scene. It seemed this robbery was rapidly becoming a disaster – Todo seemed to agree, judging from his expression, but then again she could never read him.

"My name is Jean-Louis d'Eon," he said in refined Spanish, turning to Todo, though plainly fighting to keep calm. "I am secretary to the minister plenipotentiary of the King of the French to His Catholic Majesty and I demand to be treated accordingly."

Nunnally froze, clenching her fists. Wide-eyed she observed Ogi taking the torch from Urabe's hand and lighting in the face of one of the escorts. His features were unremarkable, but when Ogi leaned in to flap over the man's coat, Nunnally saw that he was wearing a military uniform, faded blue with white facings, waistcoat and trousers, and red piping. He carried sabre and carbine. His black tricorne carried the tricoloured cockade of the French Revolution.

Todo nodded grimly. Ogi leaned in to whisper something into his ear, but Nunnally could tell that the veteran had already thought of it: if they robbed a member of the diplomatic corps, the captain-general of Catalonia would be obligated to seek redress and secure the Pyrenean passes by sending out troops to hunt them down. But plainly letting the men pass unmolested would not save them: quite likely, d'Eon carried sensitive diplomatic papers which, though enciphered, his government could not risk to lose. And since the Bourbon kings of France and Spain were allied, the latter would be happy to oblige …

But none of this mattered, because it was obvious what had to be done. _Remember your oath_, Lelouch reminded her. Not that she needed to be reminded – it was with her every minute of her existence. She was certain that, if he were alive – physically – and she dead, he would have done the same.

While the men were busy discussing what to do, Nunnally raised her gun, pressed it against the diplomat's temple and pulled the trigger.

The shot was ear-battering, but probably more so for the Frenchman. For a moment, thick off-grey smoke obscured her view before the light breeze carried it away. Only the sharp stench of bad eggs remained, and the battered bloody skull of her victim. She looked down at her handiwork, he had been dead at once. The lead shot had shattered the man's skullcap, and bloody pieces of his brain were splattered on the ground. Blood on her hands.

Suddenly, Nunnally felt disgusted. Not with herself, of course, for she had done no wrong, but with the gun in her hand. The wounds cleft by a sword were clean, straight, even beautiful. She quite liked the idea of her revenge as a piece of music: light and clear, strict measures, well-placed key changes. Exposition, development, recapitulation. But this? This was not a sonata, those were the first notes played on a viola. Ugly, messy, _all wrong_. She reached for her sword (for there were still the escorts, footmen, and coacher to take care of, all that wore that dreadful tricolour) … Todo caught her hand.

She was surprised to see him positively furious. "_Have _you taken leave of your _sense_, woman!," he shouted. "What on _earth _are you thinking!"

Nunnally blinked and turned to face him. She had not expected him to react like that. "I … it was beneficial," she haltingly justified herself. "Killing them serves all of …" Todo raised his hand and slapped her in the face. She stumbled back until her back hit the coach. Nunnally was fairly certain that she had never been beaten before, and now she realised that it _hurt_. The highwayman grabbed her blood-stained wrist and violently pulled her away from the corpse. The other men were silently watching, appearing disturbed as they held their blades to the Frenchmen's throats.

"Don't be a fool," Todo hissed. "Killing them will make everything only worse. Questions will be asked, and eventually someone will find the bodies. And I swear, they _will _come for us, find us, and hang us. Is that why you did it? Some kind of revenge? Don't think you'll escape them!" He pushed her aside, and Nunnally fell on the stony batter. Todo turned, once more drew his sabre, and ordered his men to force the French soldiers inside the coach. One tried to resist and draw his knife, but was promptly beaten unconscious with the butt of Sugiyama's rifle, then also put inside the coach.

Nunnally suddenly knew what was going to happen – if not through her, by her – and it filled her with a kind of perverse satisfaction she would rather not dwell on. _Do you falter?_, Lelouch asked. _That is not the you I knew. _No, she reaffirmed her vow, she would be firm. Keeping her head down, she slowly rose and once again mounted her horse. Two of the highwaymen took the reins of the coachhorses, and slowly they made their way down the road while their companions took the soldiers' horses. Todo was riding at the head of their small column, Nunnally at its end. Yet she could not keep a smile off her face as the bandits dismounted to help force the creaking, packed carriage up the hills through the sparse underwood. She stayed behind, but she heard the screams of the French soldiers, their craven pleas for mercy.

It was the cleanest solution, the one she had forced upon the highwaymen. Leaving no witnesses would give them a headstart over authorities, but eventually would not save them. Momentarily, she felt a little bad: Todo had been right, this was clearly not the most desirable course of action for her new-found companions. _But it was necessary_, Lelouch said. _My brave Nunnally, my true Nunnally_. And though her mind knew that he was not there, that her brother would never again be there, she could feel his presence; as though it had been strengthened by the blood shed by her hands in his name.

Slowly, the cries died down. Only the sounds of the night and her horse remained. She was still freezing, but only on the outside. The stars were gorgeous; the mountains were beautiful, silver-capped silhouettes in the dark. She smiled the sweet and innocent smile she had used to smile.

When the men returned, they avoided her gaze. Todo rode up to her, the gruesome duty having calmed him into a state of bewildered apathy.

"Why did you do it?," he asked. His voice was surprisingly level. "Why did you kill the man? Was it just out of spite, to hurt your captors? That would be utterly foolish; I expected better from you …"

"I hated him," Nunnally quietly responded. "I hated all of them. They needed to die."

"You have never met any of them before," her teacher said. "How could you hate them? They had lives and ambitions, friends and families who will grieve for them. You had no reason to murder them, but murder them you did."

His words felt harsher than they probably were. They were not meant to be, but they were, indeed, an attack, an insult to her brother's restless soul. _It was no murder_, a voice said, though she could not tell whether it was Nunnally or Lelouch, _it was just_. When she replied, her gaze had turned steel and her voice frozen over. "I am fully aware of my actions and their consequences,. _Señor_. I understand that people will grieve for them, and it hurts me just as well, but it must needs be done."

"But why? What did those men ever do to you? What reason could you possibly have had to murder them?"

"Because of who they were," Nunnally shot back. "Because of the symbol that they wore. That alone is reason enough. I hate them, and they deserve to die – no, for the good of all mankind, they_ have _to die."

"That is madness! What you desire is a war …"

"Then war I shall have."

Todo reined in his horse and turned to her. His face was grim, his gaze a lightning stroke. "You," he slowly began, "you know _nothing _about war. What you call for, you cannot bear, cannot comprehend. Have you ever seen a man screaming in utter anguish as his limbs are taken off on the battlefield? Have you ever seen a starving child of ten offer its body to passing soldiers for a loaf of bread? Tell me, child, what do _you_ know about war?I have seen both, and more. I have seen canister burst into a dense line, and have seen the carnage resulting. Blood on the dusty grass, ripped-up bodies, the intestines draped around them like garlands, their screams barely to be heard over the sound of cannon and guns! Blindly marching through the powder smoke so dense you scarcely see your hand, let alone your flag, the sharp stench searing your lungs, cling to your red-hot musket, load with burning fingers, fire into the smoke and hear the foemen's bullets fizz past you? You, little lady, you know _nothing_ about the dirty business of war. And yet you desire it."

Nunnally looked at him. She tried to keep a blank expression. "Yes," she quietly said. "I desire it. Though I know the price, nothing will keep me from ever demanding – fighting for – anything less than the utter destruction of the Revolution forced over France and Europe and all its hellish murderous ideals. I _know_, Señor, perhaps not half as well as you, but still – more than enough. On my own body I have experienced the terrors of war, for while it is yet undeclared and gone unnoticed, it has been a war and nothing less that we are fighting for three long years. You see, I do not demand it, do not desire it. I already am fighting it. That is the greatest hope and yearning I have left on this Earth, Señor Todo, and though I may be a prisoner of yours, I humbly ask that you do not keep me from doing what I believe is right, necessary, and holy."

Todo scoffed and gave spurs to his horse that Nunnally struggled to keep up as they set to the top of the column. "You are deluded, girl," he said. "Deluded and mad and insane."

Nunnally said nothing. _He is against you_, Lelouch affirmed her suspicions. _He will keep you from staying true to our oath. We might have to kill him._

Todo said: "But, alas, I have given you the sword you need to fight your enemies, or at least the skills to wield it. I fear I shall have to take responsibility for what you do with it, as any master should. But I see that I cannot possibly keep you from doing it if you are dead-set on it. You have a strong will, girl, stronger and harsher than that of many men I met. Aye, I cannot keep you. I will not keep you."

_I told you he is on our side, _Lelouch said. She had been a fool not to believe in him. "You … will let me?," she haltingly asked. She could still not quite believe it.

"I will. But before that, I ask you to reconsider. Not only your actions, but also the time. It has not yet come for you, girl. You are still weak; powerless. No matter what you do, it will be of little consequence. This is not an order; it is word of advice: wait. Wait until the time has come where you are strong enough to strike, and pray do not harm your friends – your allies. That is all I have to say in that matter."

Nunnally looked at him, aghast. "You mean … you will help me?"

"That is taking it too far. Oh, one more thing: remember your upbringing. Try not to kill people left and right."

And she and Lelouch said at the same time from a smile that was the definition of innocence: "Certainly."


	10. How to Grow a Beard Without Really Tryin

I ... do not know what to say. You speak to me of Assassin's Creed III; I tell you, it is neither about assassins, nor a creed, nor is it the third part. For it clearly is the fifth, and the creed is only mentioned once, by a Templar too, and never quoted, and the assassin is not an assassin but a dull and naive tool with no further goal than to kill Templars. Accordingly, you will have lots of Ezio references in this chapter.

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**How to Grow a Beard Without Really Trying**

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_Venice, 22 December 1792_

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Haliburton's household had grown quite a lot. To the butler and housekeeper, Mr and Mrs Morrison, the footman, the sole gondolier who doubled as stableboy and the pair of maids had come another gondolier (and a new gondola), a cook and kitchen maid, two more maids, a valet for Lelouch and another footman. Haliburton had even given several small soirées, in spite of Lelouch's embarrassed insistence that it was entirely unnecessary and he would, in fact, prefer the young Englishman (pardon, Scot) did not. It also was probably beyond his financial means, seeing as he lived off a substantial, but still finite fortune that would have to last a lifetime or force the young gentleman into the disgrace of a waged profession.

The risk was still improved further by the wages paid to the new servants – clearly, all of them were of the highest quality, with the best of references. His new valet, for example, was the offspring of an old, but impoverished patrician family and armigerous, and had before served in the Palazzo Ducale as an employee of the state. And, Lelouch was forced to admit as the servant drew the razor over his cheeks, cheerfully chatting away, he had never enjoyed cleaner and swifter shaves.

"You see," Mario Auditore – the valet – continued as he slowly stepped back from Lelouch to frowningly examined his handiwork, "next thing my ancestor knew, he was in Rome, having a fistfight with Pope Alexander VI, and talking to the goddess Minerva …"

Not listening, Lelouch removed the white cloth apron from his neck and rose. "That will do," he cut short the young man's reiteration of said ancestor's conquest of Constantinople. "I want you to go to Signor Bergoglio's shop in the Campo San Barnaba and fetch the books I ordered. After that, go and tell Signor Alberti that I don't care to wait another six months for that portrait of Madame Cuzzoni and that it's his fault he needs to work with his atelier under water. If you're quick, you've got the rest of the day off. Got that all?"

Auditore gave a quick bow. "Yes, Signore," he said. "I shall leave at once."

Lelouch threw a glance out of the window to his right, then reconsidered and handed the servant a few denari. "Take a gondola." With a relieved grin, he left.

The Spaniard could not tell what on Earth had happened to the city in the past few days. While he had expected winter weather – cold and rain, mostly – he had been completely surprised by the sudden flooding of many of the streets and squares in mid-December. It had become perfectly feasible to navigate the palazzo's atrium with the gondola, as Haliburton had been keen to do, and the government had erected wooden walkways on some of the major squares – but even these were now being submerged by the masses of water from the Adriatic. "Acqua alta," high water, Haliburton had shrugged when Lelouch had mentioned his observations to him. "It happens once per year." Even he had been disconcerted, though, when the gauge rose over six Castilian feet, and according to a quick estimate some seventy per cent of the city were to some degree under water. Not even Cecilia, who was Venetian through and through, could remember worse high water, though she had read of occasions when it had gotten up to seven Venetian feet and more. Still, she laughed it off, saying that the people and government of the city were well-used to the drawbacks of living in the Lagoon and it would be over soon, anyway. Partially to cheer her circle up from the dreary weather, she had invited for dinner on Christmas Eve. Lelouch had hoped to present her with the portrait he had commissioned on the occasion, but he had unfortunately chosen the only painter in all of Venice who would make a snail riding a tortoise seem fast.

As his valet quietly closed the door behind himself, Lelouch beheld his reflection in the mirror on the washing table. He quite liked what he saw. Young, handsome; a clean, sharp, somewhat hawkish face with a narrow chin. His long black hair brushed back and clubbed. Though much and more had happened, no one could have guessed the change just from looking at his face, he thought – though perhaps there had been some. Perhaps, indeed, a shadow had descended over his eyes, now sunken deep in their sockets. Mesmerising, one might have called it, romantic. Lelouch preferred "discomforting".

He threw another glance out of the window, this time slightly annoyed. To make matters worse, it appeared to have started raining. Lelouch gave an exasperated sigh before turning away to look for some clothes. In Cadiz, he had never had a valet of his own, and consequently always known exactly where his things had been. Mario Auditore, however, seemed to have his own ideas where to place what, which turned his quest for a fresh shirt, silk stockings and grey breeches into half an odyssey. Having found one, he returned to the mirror to tie his cravat. On a second glance, he noticed as his fingers skilfully manipulated the white linen, his eyes weren't all that shadowed these days. His earlier impression might have been the result of sleepiness, or perhaps being in a bad mood. Involuntarily, he halted in his movements and then let his hands rest.

The man who looked back at him from the mirror was virtually indistinguishable from the boy who had left Cadiz at Nunnally's side, if not better-looking – whereas now on his sister's body, once beautiful as the moon, the worms feasted, and an unrelenting god denied resurrection to the destroyed body. He had been taught, and had been certain in the knowledge, that she who was virtuous in life would sit at the side of God until the end of times; and clearly Nunnally had been the more virtuous of the siblings. Where was the justice in that? Precisely.

After some short consideration, Lelouch turned away to put on a medium grey single-breasted waistcoat and dropped his gold pocket watch (a gift from Haliburton, he had lost his to the murderers) into the pocket, idly hooking the chain to one of the lower buttons of the waistcoat.

Since he wasn't planning on going out in that weather, Lelouch shunned a coat, resigned himself to letting Mario try and get some modicum of order into the room, and left. The day before, he had seen an advertisement for an open ball hosted by Lord Contarini, and since he was fairly certain Cecilia would attend, but it would be boring alone if she didn't, he was going to ask Haliburton to join him. He descended the staircase into the piano nobile salon, where his host was wont to sit and read on rainy days. The Scotsman was nowhere to be found, however the elderly butler, Mr Morrison, was in the dining room directing the pair of footmen, both lanky Venetian youths with curly black hair.

Lelouch turned to Morrison and inquired whether Mr Haliburton was awake, and if so, where he might be. The servant's reaction was quite curious; a disapproving, thin-lipped glare. Coolly, Morrison replied; "It is Sunday morning, my lord. The young master has taken the gondola to St. Mark's to hear High Mass." – but then again, the butler had never been particularly friendly towards him for some reason or another.

He ignored the disrespect in his voice and chuckled. "Mass at St. Mark's? What, has he repented his Calvinist heresy and accepted the, ah, Popish creed?," he dryly joked. No one laughed.

"No, sir. The choir of the _Ospedale della Pietà _is to perform a new mass in G by Maestro Paisiello for the occasion of the feast of _Rorate coeli_." He supposed that made sense – St. Mark's Cathedral had legendary acoustic properties and the four great orphanages of Venice with their professional choirs and orchestras, in the past led by masters like Monteverdi and Vivaldi, had been essential in gaining Venice the sobriquet of being the "Republic of Music".

"Could you tell me once he's back?," Lelouch hence asked. "I'll be in the library …" But before Morrison could reply, the door to the hall opened and one of the new upstairs maids entered. She seemed a little surprised to see Lelouch in the dining room, but bowed after a brief moment. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," she timidly said. "But there is a Signor Dupole at the canal door. He wishes to speak to you, sir."

He froze. Whilst he did not share Cecilia's judgement of the man, had in fact found him an intelligent and pleasant gentleman, if a bit overbearing, he had never had much business with the patrician. His presence here – and the wish to speak Lelouch in particular – could mean much and more. One disconcerting thought arose; could it be he knew of his infatuation for his mistress and had come to exact satisfaction? Lelouch felt compelled to get his sword. But refusing him would be an incredible insult, and it might well be he had come on a more peaceful note. "Well …," he slowly said, trying to gather his thoughts. "Send him in, then. The drawing room … offer him something to drink. I'll be with him in a minute."

The maid nodded and removed herself, and Morrison delegated the senior footman to attend to Mao. Meanwhile, Lelouch hurried back to his room to put on a medium-grey double-breasted coat with some gold embroidery to match his waistcoat. For a moment he hesitatingly glanced at the smallsword on the dresser, then let it be. If Mao had come to challenge him, he would not need it until the time they agreed on, and if not, it might seem overly martial to greet a guest in one's own house armed.

Mao Dupole was casually seated on a Rococo armchair in the drawing room, with idly crossed legs. He was drinking coffee, and a fire had been lighted. He rose and smiled when Lelouch entered. "Monsieur Lamperouge, good morning," he said. "I hope I did not wake you."

"Not at all," he warily replied and gestured towards the armchair. "Please, make yourself at home." When he sat opposite his guest, he found that his back was fraught like a riding crop. The footman brought another cup of coffee, but Lelouch did not touch it.

At five Castile feet two, Dupole was a tall man, and strangely his pure white hair which he wore queued and his pale skin made him look equally younger and older than his twenty-eight years. The impression was yet increased by his large eyes which could appear both black and purple, depending on the light, and his clothes – white waistcoat and breeches, a silver-hilted smallsword and, on a frame by the fireplace to dry, a white coat with military-style blue facings.

"What brings you here, sir?"

"I will not disturb you for long. I do, however, have a request which I would like to make you consider. You see, the Dupole family has offices in, amongst other places, Constantinople and Moscow. Both are important, of course – Siberian pelts; opium, silks, spices and Oriental art, all very valuable trading goods. If not for da Gama and his compatriots, they would be invaluable, but even so they are good money. Oh, do not pique, Monsieur, I am Venetian. _Pecunia non olet_, indeed, it is the foundation of our nobility."

"I meant no disrespect."

"No, of course not. In any case, though my family is large, we cannot do everything ourselves. I have cousins running our businesses in Rome, Jaffa, and Brussels. But both Constantinople and Moscow are headed by employees from without the family. Since we have a larger pool to choose them from, they are usually more competent, but at the same time not as reliable since they are not bound to us by blood. In recent months, we have lost several of our shiploads in the Black Sea, and one of our ships, the twelve-hundred ton merchantman _Leone Trionfante_, which had been transporting pelts and other goods from the Crimea, has been due in Venice for a month, but has yet to arrive. My man in Constantinople is conspicuously silent on the matter."

"My condolences. I imagine you have lost a lot. Could it have been an accident?"

"I doubt it. The Black Sea is calm this time of year. Of course I cannot be sure that my men are embezzling from me – and I cannot afford to lose them if they are innocent. I will have to travel there myself, I fear – first to Constantinople, then up the Don and Volga to Moscow, and while I'm at it, I'll have a look our struggling business in Palestine and Naples. I imagine I will be abroad for three months, perhaps more." Mao leaned in a little and lowered his voice a little. "And, just between us, my allies and I are confident I will be elected into the Council of Ten next March."

Lelouch raised a brow. "Congratulations. If your rise continues at this speed, I imagine you will be the next Doge."

His guest laughed pleasantly. "Not as soon, I fear. Everything is falling into place, though. In any case, if that happens, there is a very distinct chance that I will be made one of the Heads of the Ten for the first few months. And since the Heads are forbidden to leave the Palazzo Ducale for the duration of their term, that might well extend the period in which I am practically out of town into the summer. And that, sir, is where my request to you lays."

"Well, let me hear it. If it is in my power, I will be glad to grant it."

Mao hesitated and shifted in the pillows. He put down his cup of coffee. "Cecilia …," he slowly said, "is a wonderful woman. I love her, and once it is opportune to divorce my wife, I plan to marry her – don't tell her that, though."

"I won't," Lelouch replied. He felt as if the room had gotten several degrees colder and shivered a little, but Mao did not seem to notice. He wondered whether Cecilia might accept a proposal of marriage, and found himself horrified to realise that she probably would, for sake of the luxury he could offer her, if she would even have a choice in the matter. Still, it was no lie – he had given his word as a gentleman not to tell her about Mao's plans, and so he wouldn't. Also, there was the faint hope that if she didn't know, Cecilia would – what?

"I love her," Mao repeated. "But, though it hurts me to admit it, she still remains a woman, and a courtesan. I fear … that, if I am absent from Venice and her company for so long …" He broke off.

"That her affections may weaken," Lelouch finished, "and she may … betray you."

The white patrician nodded. "As women are wont to do."

"As women are wont to do. On risk of sounding intrusive, what does all that have to do with me? Why are you telling me this?"

Mao leaned back in the chair and folded his hands over his stomach. "Seeing as you are a foreigner, you may not be familiar with it. But there is an old tradition in Italy, that, if a man goes on a journey, he leaves behind a trusted friend to hold his wife company and make sure she does nothing … improper. A gentleman of pleasant demeanour and intellectual bearing, chaste, of course, and trusted by the lady and her husband alike. He is to be the gallant and friend of the lady, and avoid all contact with other women – a demanding duty. A _cicisbeo, _as we call them."

"I think I understand your meaning," Lelouch replied. "A _cortejo_, we call them in Spain."

Mao looked relieved. "Then you understand my concerns. Now, of course Cecilia is not my wife, but in my eyes I will freely admit that she is so far more than my actual wife. And so … Monsieur de Lamperouge. I would like to ask you if you would accept to be Cecilia's _cicisbeo _for the duration of my absence."

Though he understood the words, Lelouch could still not quite belief it. He had received Mao expecting to be challenged to a duel, and now he was asking him to be Cecilia's lover – for that was the origin and, commonly, meaning of being a _cortejo _or, likely, _cicisbeo_? … could it be a trap? A cruel trick Cecilia and Mao were playing on him?

"Why me?," he asked. He felt as if he had swallowed a frog, whole, and it continued to struggle in his throat.

Mao shifted and avoided his gaze. It was clearly an uncomfortable question, and Lelouch found his suspicions strengthening. "… well," he said after a pause. "I … I understand that, with you and … Mr Haliburton, I have no reason to … suspect any improper … _relationship_ between you and Cecilia. For lack of inclination, if you get my meaning. And between you and Rolo it was a simple choice since she seems to prefer your company …"

Lelouch blinked. He did not quite understand his reasoning – surely there was nothing odd about two young gentlemen sharing a palazzo – or what Haliburton had to do with it; and he felt slightly insulted in his virility by Mao's implications. But why should he care, when he could just accept the opportunity to be close to Cecilia? He smiled, nodded, and simply said: "I would be honoured."

Mao seemed relieved. "Good. Good. Thank you, sir, I know it will be inconvenient to you, and on such short notice, too …" He rose, so did Lelouch.

"Not at all. It really is a pleasure. I … assume I was Cecilia's choice?"

"She doesn't know yet, actually. I've been planning on telling her tonight, but I've got business to do all day."

Lelouch suddenly realised what Cecilia had meant, that one day months ago on the gondola. She had been bitter, angry and disappointed. He had thought she was overreacting, and perhaps she had, but he was clearly seeing that the core of her complaint had been true. That day, when he had given his promise – neither of them had mentioned again afterwards. Cecilia seemed to find him cute and amusing and not very serious, whilst he had spent the past months arguing with himself and apologising to Nunnally. When he had left Argelès, the priest had told him to leave the past behind, but that was an illusion. _Success is the best revenge_, he had said, but that, too, was a lie. _Revenge _was the best, the only revenge that he would have, that Nunnally would have. It would be so simple to just listen to the priest's advice and let her remain dead, but also far too hard. And so, when he had promised to make Cecilia happy – by implication, to stay by her side – he had found himself locked in a dead circle. _Forgive me, Nunnally_. He wondered if he could ever keep it, keep both.

Mao retrieved his coat from the rack before the fireplace and put it on. "Thank you for your time," he said. "I'm afraid I must hurry."

He pleasantly nodded. "Of course. You'll find your way out?"

Lelouch watched from the window as Mao boarded his gondola on the overflowing Canal Grande, his fingers tapping against the windowpane. Before, he had feared and worried and sought for the forgiveness that would not come, but now it all seemed simple and light. It had stopped raining, and with the rainfall, Venice had changed. When he had arrived, it had been bright orange and teal, now it was white and grey. But she was still beautiful. When he had arrived, he had been moving through thick syrup with every step, a distraction to every side, the Republic, the city a giant beautiful alluring succubus. Now, she was exhilarating, was free, was stimulating, was Cecilia.

Once Dupole's gondola was out of sight, Lelouch slipped on an overcoat and bicorne and descended the staircase into the atrium. Since it was almost fully under water, the servants had erected wooden walkways to the water and land gates. Tall as he was, he had to take care not to bump his head on the high vaulted ceiling, unless he wanted to go for a swim in the freezing water. As he stepped outside the palazzo – he had to laugh when he realised that he was now basically standing on the Grand Canal – he realised that he had told Marco to take the gondola, and that he would have to walk, but even that could not diminish his delight.

Haliburton's palazzo was situated where the Rio di San Luca flew into the Grand Canal, so Lelouch left through the street-entrance on the flooded Campo di San Luca. In front of the church, the parish or the government had also erected walkways, and the servants had made sure the palazzo was connected to them, so that Lelouch was able to cross the bridge over the San Luca canal dry-feeted. Following the labyrinthine, narrow walkways westwards towards San Benedetto, walked past Palazzo Corner-Spirelli was located, he figured he could hire a gondola for the rest of the way to Ca' Rezzonico, but for some reason, he felt like walking. The cool, salty air filled his lungs, he hadn't felt as alive for months. A few blocks further he could see the Oratorio Annunziata, for some reason it seemed as if there was a cloaked figure all in white standing high on top the belfry, overlooking the city, but the figure was gone the next time he looked. That was strange, since the only way down from his position would have been to jump, and surely no one –

Perhaps there was something peculiar about Lelouch, or perhaps he just had too much on his mind, but once again he found himself accidentally helping another person to a bath in the canal. The other man uttered a surprised scream as he fell into the water, Lelouch stumbled but held his balance. How had this happened, again? He did not even remember bumping into him, or even seeing him.

As he helped his swearing and yelling victim out of the water, he noticed that the soaked rags on his body were the black cassock and fascia of a priest. The words coming out of his mouth, however, were decidedly unchristian. Lelouch endured the rapturous stream of Italian curses, feeling only slightly guilty. "_Porca troia! _Just _look _at me, I'm going to freeze to death in these soaking rags, all because of you _stronzo! _I was just returning home from a patron, suspecting no ill, when that _zoccaro cafone _violently attacked me; well,_ vaffanculo! Questa disgraziato!_"

Lelouch had to admit that he found the priest's rant mildly amusing. "Calm yourself, _padre_. Here, let me help you up."

"And what good is that going to do me!," he growled standing up, "In this weather, I'll freeze to death in my wet clothes if I walk home, and I do not have any money for a gondola. Not to mention I have to read mass in two hours, how is my cassock going to dry in time? I swear, I will –"

Lelouch cut his rant. "I am very sorry, _padre_. Look, over there is a coffeehouse. Would it help you to rest by the fire for a moment and then take a gondola home? On my costs, of course." Well, on Haliburton's cost, actually, but he wasn't going to mention that.

The priest shot him a suspicious glance, but then grunted his approval and followed as Lelouch led the way to the _caffè_ by the Calle dell' Albero. The entrance was slightly below street level, so that they had to climb through the open first-floor window to enter. Inside, however, they were received by a lit fireplace. A waiter came to take Lelouch's hat and overcoat, and upon seeing the state that the priest were in, seated them by the fire. Lelouch paid six silver _soldi _for admittance and two cups of coffee, which were swiftly brought.

Slightly bored, Lelouch stared out of the window as he drank his beverage. To think that he had to waste his time like this when he could spend it in Cecilia's company! Of course, to be entirely fair, it kind of was his fault for being inattentive – in any case a trait which would likely serve him ill when trying to fulfil his promise. He had to chuckle at the thought. _Forgive me, Nunnally._

"What's so funny?," the priest asked, annoyed. Lelouch winced a little. "Ah, nothing," he said, quickly changing topic. "I don't believe I know your name, _padre_."

"Trattore. Ottavio Trattore."

"Lelouch de Lamperouge. … You said you were returning to your parish? Which one is it?"

"San Canciano, in Cannaregio. Near the very first ducal palace, from the age of Agnello Participazio. Doesn't ring a bell, does it?"

"I'm afraid not. I shall have to hear mass there some time."

Father Ottavio snorted. "Don't try to fool me. I studied at Padoa in my youth and also am a good reader of people. If you enter a church, it's not for prayer. You'd be in St. Mark's otherwise, judging from your clothes. All the fops and snobs are there. You're not very religious, are you?"

Now more than slightly annoyed, Lelouch shifted a little in his seat. Fine, he had gotten his lesson – don't bump into strangers, especially when treading on a narrow walkway over flooded squares. Still, he would not be insulted by this priest. "No," he brusquely said, "Quite frankly, I do not see the point to prayer, for it is obvious that God continues to debase and torment us as he pleases regardless of our devotions."

The priest scoffed. "Blind, foppish, _and _insane. Wonderful combination."

Lelouch almost hit on the table. The waiter threw him a disapproving glance. "I _beg _your pardon, sir?"

The offending cleric continued to calmly sip his coffee. "Well, it should be quite obvious. The evidence is overwhelming and plain to see. To say the least, no god who gave mankind _Hamlet_, _Don Giovanni_, and the Venetian Lagoon can be wholly bad."

"Of course," Lelouch replied sarcastically. "And clearly the god who lets such crimes be done as are done against His children, yet could prevent them, is indeed responsible for them, is good and loving."

"But He is _not _responsible for them, that is the point. God's grace is eternal, yes, but every man can choose for himself whether he accepts or denounces it. He created us as rational beings, conferring on us the dignity of persons who can initiate and control our own actions. God willed that man should be left to his own counsel, that we might of our own accord seek our Creator and freely attain His full and blessed perfection by cleaving to Him. It is man who commits evil by his own free choice, and God who offers us the choice for good."

"And yet, He claims omniscience! That is completely absurd, for if He knows all that is going to happen, it must be predestined by His will, which makes Him the instigator of all and our free will, as you claim, nothing but an illusion."

"So do you believe that you have free will? The power to decide to condemn God of your own accord?"

"Obviously."

"Then you must be a Revolutionary."

Lelouch nearly choked on his coffee. "I beg your pardon?!" He was not sure he had heard correctly; even if the priest clearly was no gentleman, he had expected more civility inside a coffeehouse – clearly not so grave an insult. Involuntarily, his hand moved to the hilt of his sabre.

"Oh, come on," Father Trattore bawled, "it's obvious, isn't it … if you believe in free will, by your reasoning, you may not believe in God's omniscience, which by _my _reasoning makes you an atheist, for without omniscience He is little better than an overpowered demon. Hence … an atheist, hence, a revolutionary. Don't worry, you're in good company. Just an hour ago, the lady I was visiting to hear confession deemed it necessary to illustrate in detail and with all the ardour of a godless sans-culottes the 33 charges brought against the deposed King Louis XVI last week …"

Lelouch was no longer listening. He was sure that, if he stayed but a minute longer, he would kill the holy man. So, he jumped to his feet, slammed two _lire _on the table in front of him and violently retrieved his coat and hat. "Excuse me, _padre_," he said, his voice cold as steel, "but I am in a hurry. Take a gondola home. Farewell."

The priest said nothing as he stormed out, steaming with fury. How _dared _this impertinent savage to accuse him of such depraved ambitions! He thought he should like to kill him, but Nunnally would have disagreed. Lelouch was half-inclined to pre-emptively ask her for forgiveness and go back into the coffeehouse to demand satisfaction, priest or not – then he realised that, firstly, he had been on his way to tell Cecilia the good news, and, secondly, there was some point to what the troublesome priest had said. He slackened his pace as he followed the Calle dell' Albero westbound. He imagined Nunnally's amused giggling as he laid out his views, "But how," she said in puzzlement, "how can a god who is denounced by the bloodhounds of the Revolution be possessed of ill intentions?" And, though there was a way, somewhere, she had a point; and the ill-mouthed _padre _had had a point, much though it hurt to admit.

And still – never mind the theological truisms on free will and God's gift to mankind, He could have prevented her death with a snap of His fingers, but had chosen not to. Never mind His mysterious ways; the very thought that Nunnally's death might have served a greater good was absurd in extremis. It was difficult to argue that the hands of the Almighty had been bound.

But the fact remained that his purpose was revenge, and it was kind of hard to take revenge on God. He could thwart his plans, of course, or attempt to do so, but what was the tool he needed to destroy? It had seemed obvious at first, but would God use a tool that had risen against Him? Well, if one could trust Milton, that was precisely what Satan was – but he was losing himself in detail.

It seemed too simple to be true, and at the same time was too convoluted to express. Oh, He clearly was a cruel god, who was not above sacrificing an innocent lamb to further His intentions.

But for now, they had a common enemy.

Lelouch halted in his steps to enter a building. He did not know the name or patron or parish. Small. A Baroque altarpiece. He dipped his fingers in the pool of Holy Water and crossed himself, briefly genuflected before the tabernacle, then proceeded to kneel in the second row of benches. There were a few other faithful in the church, but they did not bother him. Looking up at the crucifix above the altar, it seemed different from the one in Argelès. Wrought in gold, elaborately ornamented and bejewelled, the saviour's head surrounded by a fiery ivory nimbus, He looked strong and firm, not at all in pain.

_I despise thee, Lord, _Lelouch silently prayed. _Make me thy tool to strike down the Revolution. Amen._

That was all.

He rose and left to see Cecilia.

* * *

Some notes might be in order. Both Mario's babblings and the white-cloaked man on the belfry are shout outs to Assassin's Creed II, Brotherhood, and Revelations, in particular the character Ezio Auditore da Firenze (who is _hot_. And awesome. And not blonde.). Don't think too much about it.

Even after its expansion, Haliburton's establishment is rather small for a man of his status.

The winter of 1792 did indeed see an extraordinary case of Acqua Alta, though my sources currently fail me. I _think _it was some 153 cm on Christmas Eve, but I'm not certain and too lazy to convert the number I give in the chapter from Castilian feet into a civilised unit.

The _Ospedali _were Venetian orphanages. The four greatest ones, including the _Ospedale della Pieta_, were famous for their talented girls' choirs and orchestras, which made some of the finest music in the world at the time. Vivaldi himself used to be conductor of the _Pieta._

The institution of cicisbei actually existed. They were also called cavalier servante or (in Spanish) cortejo. Look up "Cicisbeo" on Wikipedia for some fascinating info.

The admittance fee to an English coffeehouse at the time was one penny, though already increasing in the face of strong competition from teehouses. I have found a marvellous old money converter which gave two soldi 9 denari for a penny. At the time, Venice's currency was as follows: A silver Soldo is 12 copper denari, a Cassetti is 2 soldi, and a Lira is 20 soldi, or 10 Cassetti, or 240 denari. For gold coins, there were Ducats à 260 Soldi, Scudo d'Oro à 380 Soldi and the legendary Zecchino, 400 Soldi apiece. For reference, 100 Venetian Lire were about 3 Pound Sterling.

When Pater Ottavio talks about God's goodness, he is referencing Gustave Flaubert, who called _Don Giovanni_, along with _Hamlet_ and the sea, "the three finest things God ever made."_  
_

The trial against the deposed King of the French, Citizen Louis Capet, or Louis XVI, began on 10 December 1792. See Wikipedia for details, or wait until the next chapter.

Please review :D


	11. Molay Avenged

I needed to get this out of my system. Exams start the day after tomorrow. Consequently, it's not particularly good. Plenty of foreshadowing, though.

* * *

**Molay Avenged**

* * *

_Venice, January 1793_

* * *

Father Ottavio gave a deep sigh. "Is that truly all you wish to tell me, Cecilia?"

She nodded, rolling her eyes. "It is. And I would prefer you stopped asking me, _padre_."

They were seated in the small chapel of her house: a small room with marble floors, red floral tapestries. Coffered rosewood doors led to the ballroom and the adjacent Pastel Room. A splendid ceiling fresco depicting an allegory of marriage by the great Giambattista Tiepolo. It had been created in 1757 on the occasion of the marriage of a scion of the Rezzonico family at the height of its glory. A life-sized oil painting on the wall facing the courtyard depicted Carlo della Torre di Rezzonico, more properly known as Pope Clement XIII. Even though Mao had transferred ownership to her before his departure to the East to protect her from his family, Ca' Rezzonico was not truly her house, she knew. She would have amended that, but she had no illustrious ancestors with whom to plaster the walls, no arms to have the golden double-headed eagle on blue of her predecessors painted over with. Overlooking the Rio di San Barnaba was a small alcove all in white with gold details, with a small painting of the Holy Family and a wooden kneeler.

Cecilia, obviously, was seated rather more comfortably in a gilded and cushioned chair to the priest's side. "You ask me this every time I confess," she continued. "My answer will not change."

"And I am required to keep asking you this until you show penitence. Your sin is obvious to all but you, and it continues to stand in your way to true absolution. You need to acknowledge it, and avoid the sin henceforth."

"I am not aware of any sins which I have not brought before you, _padre_," Cecilia replied, perhaps a bit more aggressively than she had been meaning to. The night before, she had been to the Venetian première of Salieri's _Axur, re d'Ormus _at the Fenice, and after that had been able to convince her new-found shadow to accompany her to a ball at the Fondaco dei Tedeschi on the occasion of the Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul. Sure, it had been a lovely evening, but it had left her with a headache. "In any case, this is idiotic. Mao's in Constantinople by now, surely you don't mean to suggest I spirited myself into his bed last night?"

For a moment, her confessor's bewigged head reddened in anger, then it ebbed again. "You know full well whom I mean," he said. "And I believe I have taught you that there is more to sinning than merely action."

Her expression hardened. "No more of that, Father. I have no more sins to confess which I withheld from you. Now, if you would be so kind. _For these and all the sins of my past life I ask forgiveness from God, penance and absolution from you, Father._"

With a deep sigh that was equal parts frustration, anger and resignation, Father Ottavio slowly nodded. "Very well then, if you are willing to bear the consequences. The _ospedale _in my parish has been suffering from financial difficulties as of recent. They gravely need someone to ease their trouble, but …"

"… it is poor area, full of poor people," Cecilia finished.

"Precisely. To be frank, I was unsure if you remembered. Anyway, I want you to take up the expenses of twelve of the children for six months, and feast all the children and their supervisors on the solemnities up to and including Corpus. There are some seventy orphans in all, so it should be well within your possibilities."

She nodded. "If I may do it anonymously."

Again her confessor sighed, but gave way. "If you insist. Well then, let's get on with it."

Mechanically smoothing out a crease in her dress, Cecilia rose, then knelt in the tiny chapel. "_Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando,_" she began praying, "_Non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris. Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum. Amen__._"

Father Ottavio then said his part; "_Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges,_" crossing himself, "_Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuo in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._"

She rose. "Thank you, Father," she coolly replied, getting up to face him.

The priest furrowed his brow. "Don't mistake me, Cecilia. By Canon Law, you are now permitted to receive the Eucharist since your sin, whilst grave, is not manifest. Not that you would come to me for Communion, when was the last time you were home, or anywhere near San Canciano? Six, seven years?"

"Eight years, three months and twenty-one days."

"Commendable precision. Anyway, while you may take Communion, I want you to be fully aware that receiving the body of Christ while in a state of grave sin, as you remain to be, even if you do not want to acknowledge it, is sacrilege. God will know –"

Cecilia interrupted him. "Enough of that. You have told me the exact same nonsense the last three times, and I have not forgotten it."

"Unlike so many other things."

"Another thing I should like to forget. Nevertheless, thank you, Father."

A servant brought Father Ottavio's greatcoat and hat. "Sometimes," he said while struggling with the heavy garment – the servant stood by and did nothing to help – "I wonder why you even bother to call for me. Surely there are other, more forgiving confessors in this city. I have known you since you were a child – but to you, that should clearly count against me, seeing as you refuse to even acknowledge the existence of your own _mother_."

"My mother is dead," Cecilia sharply replied. She sank back into her chair, nervously holding on to the armrest.

"No, she isn't, she's living just south of the Old Ghetto. Ah, never mind. Still, I'm curious. Why me?"

"Because I trust you," she replied. It was better than not answering at all. And, in truth, there was something to it – well, she _did _trust him, of course, but that was not all of it.

In any case, Father Ottavio seemed to be content with that reply, for he gave a brief nod, "Go with God, child," and left.

Cecilia remained in the chapel. Suddenly, the headache of last night overcame her, a painful thumping in the back of her head. _One hammers at the prow_, she thought, _one at the stern; this one makes oars and that one cordage twists; another mends the mainsail and the mizzen … and apparently they are readying the cannons._ She supposed she would spend the rest of the day in bed –

A servant stepped into the room, so quiet she barely noticed. "Madama. Signor Lamperouge is here to see you."

She blurted out a rather flowery curse upon morning people the world over, their families, friends, and friends' families, in words which probably did nothing to endear her to the liveried servant and only worsened her headache. She was half about to tell the footman to tell Lelouch where to put his morning visit (though some of her properly Venetian language would likely be lost in translation) when she realised that, firstly, she couldn't really be angry with Lelouch, secondly, that she would hate to send him away, and, thirdly, that seeing him actually seemed superior to sleeping out her headache. She sighed, angry with herself and at the same time strangely eager. Her mental _Arsenale _did not sleep. "Very well then," she told the footman. "Show him in and remove yourself"

The servant left. She took a moment to gather herself, then closed the doors to the chapel alcove and threw a quick look into the mirror in the adjacent room. She supposed she would receive Lelouch in the deep red Sala del trono in the south-eastern corner of the building, where she held her salons and so she hurried over there, randomly grabbing a book (the correspondence of the Marchesa Pimentel and Metastasio) and casually lying down on a divan as she already heard footsteps; the clacking of hard lacquered shoes swiftly marching across the marble floor of the ballroom. Her heart was racing, and it was just in time that she managed to calm down enough to preserve her dignity when Lelouch strode into the room without slowing down. "Will you look at this!," he called, enraged, waving the newspaper in his hand. He seemed to have run all the way from his house (or judging from what she knew of his constitution, up the stairs). He was heavily breathing, his pale face reddened.

She was thankful for this, for it meant he would likely not notice her own reddened face and puffed cheeks. She took a moment to observe him. His clothes were dishevelled; he had not taken off his overcoat and when he dropped it to the floor she saw he had not thought to put on a coat. The cravat was bound sloppily and the shirt under the striped waistcoat dampened by sweat. He had clearly left his home without even time to dress properly. Rising from the divan as gracefully as she managed and approaching him, Cecilia gifted him with a playful smile. "And good morrow to you, Signore. How good to see you – and so early in the morning, too …" At those last words, her smile dropped. "Now, how shall I kill you?"

But Lelouch to her surprise completely ignored her. Usually, she would have expected him to make a teasing reply or, perhaps more likely, seriously ask if he had offended her. She had not expected to be ignored, and that greatly irked her. "Will you look at this!," he repeated, slamming the paper on the cabinet to their side. "They have done it!"

Cecilia frowned. Only once had she seen him this angry, but she supposed it wasn't her fault this time. "What is it?," she asked (she was surprised to find herself concerned). "Er … may I offer you anything? Some tea, perhaps?"

Lelouch was furious, that much was clear. With blazing eyes and a barely suppressed trembling in his voice, he said: "They have executed the king. The king! Just in from Paris, His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVI, anointed King of France and Navarre, was beheaded by guillotine in front of a screaming mob. Five days ago, on the _Place de la Révolution._"

She took the papers from him, moved the damp grey overcoat on the floor aside with a kick of her right foot, and called for tea before remembering she had sent the servant away. "Calm down, Monsieur. Here, take a seat. Please tell me the details, I beseech you."

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. "I heard about it this morning when Mr Haliburton brought me this paper – the _Moniteur _of 22 January. Apparently, a diplomatic courier brought several hundred copies to Venice last night. Here, listen." Lelouch snatched back the paper and began reading in French from the first page. "_Arriving at the foot of the guillotine, Louis XVI looked for a moment at the instruments of his execution and asked Sanson_ – the executioner – _why the drums had stopped beating. He came forward to speak, but there were shouts to the executioners to get on with their work. As he was strapped down, he exclaimed "My people, I die innocent!" Then, turning towards his executioners, Louis XVI declared "Gentlemen, I am innocent of everything of which I am accused. I hope that my blood my cement the good fortune of the French." The blade fell. It was about half past 10 in the morning. One of the assistants of Sanson showed the head of Louis XVI to the people, whereupon a huge cry of "Vive la Nation! Vive la République!" arose and an artillery salute rang out which reached the ears of the imprisoned Royal family. _Based on the account of Monsieur Sanson. The _Thermomèter du jour _seems to report that the king cried "I am lost" upon ascending the scaffold … but then again, it insists that someone jumped the scaffold after the deed was done and proclaimed "Jacques de Molay, thou art avenged!" … Well, while the Revolution's actions are no less blasphemous than those ascribed to the Templars, I wouldn't ascribe them to an order that has been gone for five centuries."

A brief smile appeared on Cecilia's lips. "Curious, isn't it? The things men will believe in … Well, the scoundrel seems to have died more honourably than he lived."

"You mean, innocent?," Lelouch challenged her.

She gave a polite laugh. "Please, calm down, Lelouch. You seem surprised. Louis clearly had it coming – he's been on trial since December, and convicted since the 16th of this month, I believe."

"Trial! That's not a trial, that's a sham! Every single part about it was vile and false: the Convention, which exists only by the sufferance of the monarch, has no right to judge him – or, indeed, anyone. The jury of Jacobins and Montagnards and Girondists are no jury, but wolves, that would tear apart anyone thrown to them, be it the king, Christ himself, or even Nunna... . The king's defence, which would otherwise have moved them to tears, was scarce to be heard over their jeering. And, of course, the 33 charges brought against him were without any substance!"

Slightly annoying. Clearly Lelouch was not intent on illuming her day. She should have sent him away. "It was a fair trial and the will of the nation of France. The resonating conviction by the elected representatives of the people proves only the severity of the crimes of Louis Capet, which are manifest."

"They clearly aren't, for I am not aware of any crimes the king committed. Care to enlighten me?"

Cecilia hurried to the cabinet and, after a moment of searching, drew out a thin map of papers. "Gladly," she snapped back, "shall I read all the charges to you?"

"Be brief with it."

Blushing in anger, she almost ripped the paper apart. Still, she would not give him this pleasure … "Firstly. _On 20 June 1789, you attacked the sovereignty of the people by suspending the assemblies of its representatives and by driving them by violence from the place of their sessions._"

"As was his right as their king," Lelouch shot back, walking up and down the room.

"I see already, this will lead nowhere. Secondly. _On 23 June you wished to dictate the laws of the nation; you surrounded its representatives with troops; you presented them with two royal declarations, subversive of every liberty, and you ordered them to separate._"

"Again, this was his right. It was he who called the Estates-General to counsel him, and, when they revolted against him in the most perverse and unnatural manner, he dissolved it for they had failed in their task."

Cecilia noted that both of them were slowly raising their voices and driving each other up to new heights of anger. She had not meant for this – she liked Lelouch; had come to hold him dear – but on the other hand, it suited him well. How dared he break into her privacy at ten in the morning to yell at her about things beyond her influence? "Showing his disregard for the true sovereign of the French nation in the process. This is going to be a long list. Thirdly, _you caused an army to march against the citizen of Paris; your satellites caused their blood to flow, and you withdrew this army only when …_"

"To suppress riots and restore order to the capital, as any ruler ought to do!"

"Well, I suppose it can be seen that way. Fourth. _After said events and in spite of the promises you made blah blah City Hall, you persisted in your designs against national liberty. For a long time you evaded executing the decrees blah concerning the abolition of personal servitude, the feudal regime, and the tithe. For a long time you refused to acknowledge the Declaration of the Rights of Man. … In orgies held before your very eyes you permitted the national cockade to be trampled under foot, the white cockade to be raised and the nation blasphemed … occasioned a new insurrection, caused the death of several citizens _and so on. What do you say to that, sir?"

"Oh, please be serious. That is all hearsay at best, and slander at worst."

"The evidence is listed right here." She showed him the line on the list of charges. "Fifthly. _At the Federation of 14 July you took an oath which you have not kept. Soon you attempted to corrupt the public mind with the aid of Talon, who acted in Paris, and of Mirabeau, who was to impart a counter-revolutionary movement to the provinces. You disbursed millions to accomplish such corruption, and you even wished to make popularity a means of enslaving the people._"

"So now you accuse him of charity? Creative, very creative indeed."

"It's _not _… oh, never mind. Six. _For a long time you contemplated flight, blah, blah, evidence, evidence. _Seven. _After your arrest at Varennes, the exercise of the executive power was for a time taken from your hands; and still you conspired. On 17 July the blood of citizens was shed at the Champ-de-Mars. A letter in your handwriting, written in 179 to Lafayette, proves that a criminal coalition existed between you and him, and that Mirabeau had acceded thereto. Revision began under these cruel auspices; all kinds of corruption were employed, you paid for libels, pamphlets, newspapers intended to pervert public opinion, to discredit the assignats, and to uphold the cause of the émigrés. Blah blah liberticide blah worked to overthrow the constitution you accepted._"

"I fail to see the difference to what the Revolution has done."

"But the _cause _is good, and that is what matters, I'm sure you'll agree. Anyway, eight. _An agreement was made at Pillnitz, on 24 July, between Leopold of Austria and Frederick William of Brandenburg, who pledged themselves to restore to France the throne of the absolute monarchy; and you were silent on that agreement up to the time when it was known to all Europe._"

"You say the cause is what matters, and you are right – so why should he remain silent on Pillnitz when the coalition fights for the just cause?"

"Don't be such a fool. Now, let me see … charges 9 to 30 are all basically variants on supporting rebellions throughout France, and weakening her defences against the Coalition. Maintaining disorder over order, conspiring with the enemy."

"What else ought he have done? A king robbed of all his power, whose only mean to defend his own royal person – and, indeed, his subjects – from desecration, anarchy, and rivers of blood flowing in the streets – is to ask for the help of his in-laws and loyal subjects! If anything, the Convention has to blame itself for that."

"The Convention expresses the will, and the wisdom, of the Nation! There is nothing more hallowed than it, and those that rebel against Her are blasphemous and traitors!"

"Curious, and here I always thought that treason were rebelling against the established order – well, the established order is and continues to be the rule of the Bourbons!"

"Thank God you're wrong."

"In any case, the losses of the French armies are not so much due to royalist "treason" but rather due to their pathetic republican leadership. If anything, it proves that modern democracies cannot be trusted to conduct a war, least of all a government."

"So? What about the Americans, then?"

"A barely civilised people on the edge of the world governed by a ridiculously cumbersome and ineffective oligarchy pretending to be democratic. In any case, these so-called "United" States of America were only able to break away from England due to massive French support and will likely not last the decade without it. Already there are strong signs of dissolution. Once General Washington is dead, they will break apart into principalities and oligarchic republics."

Cecilia found it rather hard to disagree with that, though of course his reasoning was false. "You fail to see that the United States are no nation, nor shall they ever be one, but a mere confederation of nations, as evident in their name; whilst France has been a nation for time immemorial. As has Venice, by the way. To give an analogy, the United States are as if France, the German states, Spain, all Italy and Britain swore everlasting fidelity and united in a federation for the betterment of their commerce. Within at most twenty years, they would tear each others apart, and no European nation would ever arise, as no American nation may ever appear. France, I shall repeat it, has no such inhibitions. Now, shall I continue? The best is yet to come. The 31st charge: _You allowed the French nation to be disgraced in Germany, in Italy, and in Spain, since you did nothing to extract repartition for the ill treatment which the French experienced in those countries._"

"Going by their recent behaviour, nothing to marvel at. They're being rather … well, French."

"Don't be an idiot. 32. _On 10 August, you reviewed the Swiss Guards at five o'clock in the morning. _God, another reason for his execution. Can't believe they missed that … _and the Swiss Guards fired first upon the citizens._"

"Protecting the king is their duty. It was their duty to disperse the mob that attacked them, and, though surely with a heavy heart, they were forced into this by the blood-lust of the rabble."

Cecilia scoffed. "How melodramatic. The 33rd and last charge_._ Beautiful, simple, true, a work of republican virtue. _You caused the blood of Frenchmen to flow._"

"

Now, that is a bit redundant, isn't it? But surely," Lelouch replied. His fingertips were now rhythmically tapping on the rosewood cabinet; she wished he would stop doing that, but then again, she was too angry with him to care much. The headache seemed gone at once, though she knew not why – was it the stimulating argument, or simply Lelouch's presence? His voice was dripping with sharp sarcasm. "And the Revolution had nothing at all to do with it."

"A revolution which he forced the people into."

"And what, pray tell, could he have done? People revolt not because they have read Rousseau and Voltaire and all your other madmen, they revolt because they are starving in the very streets of Paris. There is very little a government, whether good or revolutionary, can do to avert famine."

"Unless, of course, it is actively withholding its stores of grain from the people, as the king's henchmen did …"

"That is a baseless conspiracy theory."

"With plenty of evidence, thank you. You clearly do not understand the _importance _of the will of the nation, which does, indeed, exist: it might surprise you, sheltered lordling that you are, but the people _think_."

"Oh, do they?," Lelouch snapped. "I can assure you, my dear Cecilia, that you will find it much harder than you think to start a revolution here in Venice without telling the people what to think, and hoping for famine. That is, of course, assuming that you and your sorry circle of utopian dreamers finally get around to actually doing something …"

She had to clench her fists, then cling on to the divan to keep herself from slapping him. "I will not let you insult me like this," she slowly said, "Or I will ask you to leave. The execution of Citizen Louis Capet was the will of the French nation, let that be all to be spoken in this matter."

But she knew him, knew that he would never back down in such a fight when – well, whatever might be at stake. Honour, she supposed, respect. She supposed Lelouch was secretly enjoying these arguments with her – and Cecilia prided herself on it, and had to admit that she found them enjoyable as well, in a manner of speaking; there was some excitement in them; but now he had clearly gone too far. But she knew him, and he would not back down.

"Is that it?," he scoffed. "That is your justification? The plebs demand blood, so let's throw someone to the beasts? Have you run out of murderers and rapists?"

"No murderer, no rapist," she stated as calmly as she could manage, "is as dangerous as a criminal who attacks liberty and the nation. Such as yourself."

"So, will you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Assuming the Revolution takes power in Venice – will you order her enemies' heads off until the water in the canals runs red?"

"If need be."

"Will you order my head off?"

"_Yes_."

Almost as soon as she had said it, she regretted her outburst, but she would not take it back, nor apologise. For a tiny moment, Lelouch's face morphed from fury to defeat – the fire in his eyes expired, his brow smoothed, and then _hurt_. Then, a stone mask. He nodded, then turned aside and stepped to the window overlooking the Rio di San Barnaba. Stretching out on the divan, she turned him the cold shoulder, looking out of the window, the list of charges in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Lelouch had taken up his pacing up and down the room again, but considerably slower. Once in a while, he stopped by the bookshelf and threw a brief look into a random volume, then put it away again; or started to examine one of the portraits of dead strangers on the walls before resuming his march.

Minutes went by without any word being said. It had begun raining, and they both listened to the raindrops on the windowpanes. Somewhere in the upper story, the servants were moving around and floorboards creaked. Somewhere in the distance, the distinctive bells of the Carmini's belfry chimed half past ten.

"This means war," Lelouch murmured, more to himself than to her, "The Spanish Bourbons will not sit by idly. England can no longer remain silent, already they are subsiding the Coalition …Venice … Venice … no, probably not. Can't be stopped anymore …"

Though she tried to keep herself from it, she had to smile at his intense monologue. She liked that part about him – blind determination to achieve, well, what?; his attention to detail and overview of the general picture, his flexibility. Even now, trying to convince herself that she hated him for his cruel words, she would have to give that to him.

But there was more to it. His words did not indicate it, but when he had turned away she had seen his expression. She knew it, though she had never been able to place it. As if he had something to do, to prove, but – beneath that – a look of perfect grief. She knew not why, what had he to lament? She realised, for it was obvious, that she must have hurt him; but … she did not know what to do.

There was a searing pain of a sorts inside her at the side of it. Her eyes were wet, but she did not cry. She felt deep regret, and she knew it would not do. Suppose she won this flank of the fight by remaining firm, it was undeniably true that she would lose the battle, but it might still be salvaged by a hearted charge … she did not want to lose _him _as well.

Slowly, Cecilia rose from her divan. In spite of years of training, she found herself returned to a natural slouch, but that didn't matter. Her fists were tightly clenched, her throat dry. Moving silently on silken slippers across the smooth red granite floor she stepped behind Lelouch. He did not seem to notice her.

She wanted to say something, but no words came out. Cecilia awkwardly placed her arms around Lelouch's neck and nestled close to him. She knew the gesture from her clients, but it had never been so hard. What if it had been a mistake, if he felt she was intruding … His wiry body was warm and soft. Almost mechanically, he placed a hand on hers.

Resting her head on his shoulder, she whispered, following his gaze out of the window: "But I couldn't."

Lelouch looked at her from melancholy purple eyes, his mien unreadable. She tried to avoid his gaze, blushed a little – naturally, which was a thing she had not done since she had been 14 years old and unsuspecting. _Don't make the same mistake again_, a wiser, older Cecilia's voice lectured her, _you know that it is._

She kissed him and knew she was forgiven when he gently turned around to face her, held her tight and returned the kiss.

* * *

Most of the history is explained in the text. Anyway, notes:

There is a wonderful virtual tour through Ca' Rezzonico - that's right! You can see where C.C. lives :D Notes are only in Italian, though. Click the link at the bottom of this page: : / / goo . gl / DhXtr (remove the spaces, of course. I shortened the URL because it's too fucking long to add in all the spaces by hand.) There also is a great Napoleon musical that ran in Toronto for a few months in 1994 and was revived in London 2000. The London recording is freely available online. It's HILARIOUS. But enough of that.

The Latin text of the Sacrament of Penance is from fisheaters . com, a page with a ... curious worldview, but extensive information on the issue. I also spent three hours going through Canon Law to find out what a priest who suspected his parishioner to be in a grave state of sin could do regarding communion, but found little. Apparently, though, a sin needs to be public knowledge in order for the priest to be allowed to withhold communion, and even then it depends on the diocese's policies.

Cecilia's headache thoughts are adapted from Canto XXI of the Inferno of the Divine Comedy by Dante Alleghieri, tranlated by Longfellow.

Lelouch's reading is not actually from the Moniteur (I couldn't find the 22 January 1793 edition online), but from a letter of Charles Henri Sanson, the head executioner, dated 20 February 1793, published in the Thermomètre the day after. The "I am lost" part is from the Thermomètre, but from 13 February. The legend regarding Jacques de Molay, who was the last Grandmaster of the Knights Templar who was burned at the stake with 50 of his knights by the French king Louis the Fair in 1314 is just that, a legend, though already famous amongst contemporaries.

The disputation regarding the 33 articles should be clear. The charges in full can be read in the Wikipedia article on the "Trial of Louis XVI".

Both Spain and France were ruled by branches of the French Bourbon dynasty. The execution of Louis XVI of France sparked the Spanish involvement in the War of the First Coalition. More on that to follow.

Please review~


	12. The Eye of the Storm

** alalala221: **Thank you for your reviews. Concerning historical talk, I fear it is inevitable. Not only is it history that moves the ambitions of both the Lamperouges and (at least for now) Cecilia, it is also the prime mover. Indeed, this is historical fiction (as, you will recall, is the original Code Geass anime - not _good _historical fiction, and allohistorical to boot, but still historical fiction.) and hence based on history. To omit such vital detail means to make it a mere period peace, but a disturbingly unsatisfying one since the characters are moved by history. To wit, the preceding chapter with the history omitted would be well-summed up as "Cecilia talks to her priest about nothing in particular. Lelouch comes, angry about nothing in particular, and they argue about nothing in particular. Out of nowhere, they kiss. The End." You can see for yourself that this would not work. I am doing my best to present the history as exciting as it actually is, but if you are unwilling to read about (say) the rise to power of Napoleon in the face of chaos (Chaos is a ladder ... there is only the climb, to quote this weekend's Littlefinger), then I fear this might not be the fanfiction for you.

Regarding Cecilia, I cannot stress enough that the anime's C.C. is well over a thousand years old, likely more, if the theory that she was a slave can be believed (since mediaeval Christendom had virtually no slavery after the early 11th Century). The Cecilia presented in this fanfiction is 22 (or 21, I'd have to look up my notes). The very fact that C.C. _isn't _completely jaded and sociopathic after that experience, but rather still capable of entering intense emotional relationships with people she knows will die within (what appears to her as) a glimpse of her eye; as well as the fact that her "choice" of Geass reveals a highly passionate, idealistic mortal who then got broken by the experience strongly suggests to me that she is not, in any case, out of character. I agree, of course, that my Cecilia is not the show's C.C. - perhaps a better word would be _pre-_character, in that she more closely resembles the early, mortal C.C. than the immortal C.C. of Lelouch's rebellion. Obviously, that will change. (If you think this has a happy ending ... you haven't been paying attention. Gods, how I love thee, Ramsay Bolton.) In any case, I am very glad for your interest and hope you will forgive me for insisting on my points. I also recommend you make an account / log on for your next review, since PMs would enable me to explain in more detail, and faster.

**Ah, well.** This chapter was a huge pain in the arse to write; I kept being distracted by opera, Umberto Eco, _Minesweeper _(!), Uni accomodation and exams. Here it is, however, and I hope it is somewhat worth the wait.

* * *

**Eye of the Storm**

* * *

_Lleida, March 1793_

* * *

"Skeg, sir" the farrier said, "ah'm just _sayin' _tha' eur loaf of' bread owt ta be longish. T' benefits o'eur roun' breads are clear; teur nem t' least, thee are far simpler teur shape sin bumps 'n knobs smooth 'art durin' bakin', asteead o' bein' orl fahl."

"But that's wha' sa gran' abaht eur smooth, roun' loaf, in'it?," Sugiyama replied, leaning over the counter. "Ah mean, theur see a' once: dis loaf wor baked by eur bloke whoa cares abaht 'is fettle, whoa cares abaht 'is customers. Else 'e woun't av gone thru t' trouble o' makin it roun'."

"Cares abaht 'is customers alreight!," the smith moodily said as he continued hammering down on the nails sticking out of Nemo's hoof, "Gives 'em bread that's 'arda ta slice, 'arda ta stack!" Nunnally stood by, holding her horse's reigns. She was bored. The discussion continued. "Ah tell theur wha', if uz wife – wheear did theur she thas fra agin?"

"Small villidge int' mount'n's oup norf."

"Ah tell theur wha', if uz wife bakes uz a roun' loaf, she kno's wha' she 'as ta expect!"

She was _bored_. Sugiyama and herself had ridden to Lleida to have some horses, including Nemo, shoed and buy some other tools – a new hatchet, several pairs of boots, some rope, a brass camp kettle, that sort of thing. When she had asked Todo why they had to ride all the way to the provincial capital when they could have easily bought everything on their list in some small town closer to their area of operation, he had explained that some things (gunpowder) might arouse suspicion. Already, he had said, there were a lot more troops than usual stationed on the French border. In a larger city such as Lleida, their purchases would slip beneath notice.

Nunnally had volunteered to accompany Sugiyama, not because she particularly liked the man (though she liked him more than most of his companions, if not for that annoying Catalan accent of his), but because she thought she might find out some interesting things on the situation in France in the city.

Now, of course, she wished that she hadn't come. Standing in the smithy, leaning against a pillar, she held Nemo by her reigns and … well, that was about it. She tried to follow the men's conversation, which only bored her further. _The man's got a point, _her brother mused, _one can get more slices of about equal size from an oblong loaf of bread than from a round one. Well, unless one cuts the round loaf like a cake, but then …_

_You're _not _helping_, Nunnally snapped at him.

_On the _other _hand, _Lelouch continued, ignoring her, _I suppose a round loaf is much easier to store, since you can just stack them in a barrel or something._

_Stack them in a barrel? Where would you get that idea?_

_I don't know, do I look like a baker to you? Anyway, the ideal shape of a bread probably is a cuboid, but you'd require a special pan for that. An elongated loaf seems like an acceptable approximation._

_Stop talking about _bread_. Please._

_I'm inside your head, remember? I'm only talking bread because you're thinking bread._

_Well, they don't leave one much of a choice, do they. You know, when one listens to a conversation and is automatically thinking about the subject. _

"Well, wheear ah belong, bread betta be roun'. Ther's neya place for fahl square bread up int' country."

_They're not making it easy for me to think of anything else. What kind of stupid topic is that anyway? It's completely pointless …_

_Of course it is. That's why it's so interesting._

She ignored him._ … Sort of like talking about how a cat sees the sky after drinking brandy. Or, good Lord, discussing the benefits of fall front breeches over open front cuts._

_Why, that's an _intriguing _subject. Because clearly, the former are –_

_Shut. Up._

"Ah well, theear theur nip on. Should last for 'alf eur year a' least. That'll be eight pesos ten maravedi, sir."

"Eight ten! Jont ta mek me poor!"

"'Tis good work, in'it! Ah coon't charge less."

Sugiyama snorted, but paid without objecting and Nunnally led Nemo outside into the busy street.

"Well, ah think that's it. Theur need owt?"

"I … I beg your pardon?"

The highwayman rolled his eyes. Giving his best to approximate standard Castilian, he said: "D'you need anything?"

Nunnally shook her head. Truth be told, it was slightly embarrassing that she still had problems with the local Catalan dialect, but then again most of the men spoke what was essentially an accented variant of Castilian. "Thank you. We're not quite done yet, though; we still need cartridges." She paused. "There … doesn't happen to be an ordnance shop somewhere in this city?"

Sugiyama laughed. "Nay, ah dun't think sa. Come wi' me." He mounted his horse, which he had tied to one of the pillars flanking the smithy's entrance, and Nunnally mounted Nemo. "I've got a friend in t' local garrison. 'e'll gi uz wha' we need."

It was just after midday as they rode through the labyrinthine alleyways towards the citadel by the river, and the sunlight on the light cream stone of the buildings was almost blinding. The townspeople went about their business, though the streets were already clearing as men and women returned home for dinner and siesta. When she asked Sugiyama where that friend of his might be, he pointed up at what she had presumed to be a cathedral.

As they got closer, the narrow lanes abruptly opened into a white open field, in the centre of which a cliffy mount had been expanded and fortified. A glacis had been thrown up to protect several mighty arrow-shaped bastions. They turned sharp left, then sharp right, then left, then right again along a narrow path leading up to the parapet. Several triangular ravelins studded with cannon covered their advance. Behind the gun barrels, she could catch glimpses of men in the blue and red uniforms of the Royal Artillery watching them. Sugiyama frowned. "They've expanded the fortifications. More guards, too."

The centre of the fortress was dominated by a what appeared to be a deconsecrated Romanesque cathedral and cloister. An octagonal tower of almost two hundred feet bore the red-and-gold war ensign. To their left, on another fortified rampart, a massive block of stone that looked more like a prison than the medieval palace Sugiyama explained it was. Behind yet another half-moon-shaped ravelin, they dismounted and Sugiyama paid a bored gunner half a Real to watch over their horses. When they tried to enter the central courtyard, though, they were held back at the gate by several white-uniformed soldiers. "No entry to the citadel, señor."

Standing behind Sugiyama, Nunnally observed them, with Lelouch drawing her attention to several points. _Look, _he said, _they wear the king's white. Most of the royal army should be positioned in Galicia, Madrid, and around Gibraltar, shouldn't it? And there are four guards to keep a gate that could be held by a single man._

She frowned. She had noticed that as well, but had paid it no heed. Now that Lelouch had mentioned it, though, it did seem strange. Lleida Province was clearly not endangered by any neighbours – the Pyrenees in the North, and beyond that, the ancient ally of France. _But then the citadel would be held by militia. _The presence of line infantry seemed to indicate that something had changed … The implication made her smile, which for some reasons made one of the soldiers who had happened to look at her startle in surprise and fear. Lelouch seemed satisfied with her reasoning.

The rest of the discussion was predictable. "Last time ah was 'ere," Sugiyama complained in his best Castilian, "I was let in without problem."

"Well, things 'ave changed," the soldiers' leader shrugged it off. "The fifty-first line is assembling in the citadel. No one gets in until we march for the front."

"The front?," Nunnally burst in.

The leader threw her an odd look. "Where've you been for the past week, girl? It's war. The French declared on us on the 7th and have already crossed the border."

* * *

After handing over some more money, Sugiyama had found out that his friend in the garrison had been moved to the front. Since he didn't want to push his luck, they returned without cartridges. The band had made camp farther south than they would usually have, in a spacious cave hidden in a lush pine forest at the base of the southernmost foothills of the Pyrenees. Almost half a mile before their hideout, however, they were met by Tamaki and Ogi. Though she could not see them in the darkness, she heard the clatter of their horses' hooves on the rocky forest ground. "Oi!," Tamaki called out, "Who's there!"

"It's uz."

The pair trotted closer. "Glad you made it," Tamaki greeted them, flashing a wide grin. Nunnally ignored and rode past him.

"Bad news," Sugiyama replied. "We need t' talk with Todo."

Nunnally frowned a little. Clearly, Spain joining the fight against the French was excellent news.

"Why, what is it?"

"You'll hear soon 'nough." – and rode on.

Tamaki threw her a confused look, begging explanation. She followed Sugiyama. Her tormentor gave an exasperated sigh, then spurred his horse.

As they got closer to the cave and the camp, the flickering light of a campfire shone through the dense trees and illuminated their path. They had to dismount and lead their horses by their reins down a steep ravine, then up a ridge and down again through thick pine forest to reach the low clearing; which was bordered on three sides by steep cliffs with various caves of differing sizes and accessibility – once again, Nunnally had to admire the bandits' talent at finding this kind of place. Around the campfire, those highwaymen who possessed tents had erected them, the others had spread out their greatcoats on the ground. No one seemed to notice their arrival – but then again she doubted anyone but Todo would care much if she disappeared. Since the incident with the French diplomat, the men were polite, but kept their distance. When she had told Lelouch, he had laughed and told her not to worry, but she had the haunting suspicion that they were somehow scared of her.

They found Todo engaged in an argument with several of his men regarding the division of that day's spoils – four golden signet rings, a silver necklace with mother-of-pearl inlay and matching earrings, and the object of the quarrel, an ostentatiously decorated smallsword. Apparently, Rojo had done the actual robbery, but only after Camiseta, who'd been on lookout, had galloped to wake him from his siesta. Todo was just about to point out that the sword's shell guard prominently depicted the arms of a well-known government official, which meant that it was essentially unsellable, when Sugiyama approached him.

Turning around, for a moment the corners of Todo's mouth twitched in what might have been the approximation of a smile before he greeted them. "You did not run into any trouble, I trust?"

"Er, not quite," Sugiyama said. "There's news, tho'."

"Bad news?"

"There another kind?"

"Go on."

Sugiyama hesitated. That was silly, Nunnally thought, clearly Todo would realise the good news for what they were. There was consequently no reason to worry about his reaction. Eventually, Sugiyama said: "We're at war. Captain-General Ricardos is amassing an army to invade Roussillon come next month."

And though she could discern no noticeable movement in his features, Nunnally understood that Todo had replaced his mask with another one. "I … had feared as much," he gravely said. "Who declared?"

"'em."

"The fools. Their armies can barely control their conquests on the left bank of the Rhine and in the Belgium, so opening a new front is likely the most idiotic thing they could have done."

"I 'ear they're executing their own generals, now."

"I stand corrected."

She frowned and stepped a little closer to the men. Inscrutable though Todo was, she had expected him to be more pleased with the news. Did he not see the opportunity?

Todo called for the attention of the two dozen men seated around the campfire before the cave's entrance. Almost immediately, all conversation came to a halt. "Gentlemen," he said, "there are dire developments which demand our consideration. I have just been informed by Sugiyama that the French Republic has entered the state of war with the Kingdom of Spain. The consequences for us are self-evident."

Nunnally could no longer wait. This was her opportunity, her chance to act in memory of her brother and do what she should have done months ago. "Yes!," she burst out, moving closer towards the fire, "It is our duty to support the Spanish arms in their fight against the French menace!"

Her words drew no excitement nor zeal, but plenty of silence and blank stares. Todo uttered a sigh. Nothing happened. Nunnally slowly let her hands drop.

"Ah, well," Todo off-handedly said after a while without so much as looking at her. "Quite on the contrary, actually. This area will soon be swarming with troops. Already there are less and less travellers crossing the border, which means less revenue for us. Do you think the army will be too occupied with the French to mop up highwaymen threatening their supply lines? Once the war begins in earnest, they will hunt us down, and then it's to the gallows."

"So, what d'you want us to do?," one of the men asked.

"I propose we leave this area at the earliest opportunity. I grew up in the Sistema Ibérico mountains, we can go there – for the while, at least."

Nunnally was aghast. She had trusted Todo – had looked up to him, in a way. To retreat, to flee was clearly a betrayal … _We will not be betrayed with impunity_, Lelouch agreed. Fortunately for Todo, however, his idea did not seem to go down well with the bandoleros. "That's madness!," Urabe complained. "The reason we've not yet been found out is that we know the area, and you expect to give it all up? How are we supposed to hide, to flee when discovered, in an entirely strange environment?"

Her thoughts were racing. She had been planning to use the highwaymen as a headstone for her fight against the monsters, to turn them against them. _Pay attention_, Lelouch said. Of course, she would require a lever of sorts, and a place to rest it – but once the band moved away from the border, where they would come in sufficient contact with the French, that was impossible … What would become of her, she wondered, if she could not fulfil nor begin to fulfil her vow, would Lelouch leave her? He would, wouldn't he, disappointed in her, furious with her as he had never been in life but ah the dead do not love –

_Pay attention. You have only a single chance._

The backlash against Todo's proposal had only just begun. "What 'boot our stuff?!," Tamaki yelled. "What aboot tents, and powder, how're we s'pposed to get all that halfway through the country?" She was surprised that he had made a valid point, and jumped on the opportunity.

"Aye," she shouted, "all that, and more – what about your loot? Your wealth, the fruit of your labour? Hidden in caves and wells dozens of miles north of here, you will never see a glimpse of it again, not a single ring, not a single coin. Don't you see? Todo would take everything you ever had away from you, then force you to start all over again, worse, start from zero!"

Todo quietly looked back at her. "And you would have us die."

She stared back at him, unflinching. _If he is not with us, he is against us, _Lelouch reminded her.

"I agree with Todo," Ogi finally said. "I don't want to lose my share, either – but I want to lose my life even less. It's becoming too dangerous here." Well, that was to be expected, I suppose – that he would always support his friend like the loyal lapdog he was. So did Tamaki, though with an oddly apologetic look in her direction, and one by one the highwaymen declared their begrudging support for their leader's proposal.

"Then it's decided," Todo said, "We ride at dawn."

And Lelouch said: _Not us._

Preparations were made without delay. Nunnally didn't shy away from helping, she would not hold them back though they deserted her colours. She helped striking the few ragged tents, then stuffed whatever supplies they would require for the march back into the saddlebags. But she also filled Nemo's saddlebags with bread of dry bread (round), just under two hundred Real in coin, and a flintlock pistol with half a dozen shot and enough powder in a little leather flask to prime and fire them. She was unsure what she would do with a pistol, but then again it couldn't hurt.

At last, when most of the highwaymen had already wrapped themselves up in their coats on the ground to sleep, she retrieved the bundle that contained the rapier, let the sabre she had replaced it with fall into the dust and girdled herself with the only weapon she would need. As soon as she touched the smooth, slightly warm steel, she could virtually feel her brother's hands on her shoulders, guiding her every step. She placed her left fist on the wired hilt of the ancient weapon, holding it tight, then lay down on her coat and looked up at the sky. Cloudy.

With one hand resting on her stomach and the other tightly gripping the rapier, she listened to the breaths of the highwaymen. The sky remained cloudy, not a single star was in sight. She feared that she should despair of her endeavour – at least now she was provided for, had company and a mentor and protector. To leave meant to leave everything behind for a second time, though this time without even a destination to aim for. Lelouch remained silent.

And what if she returned, home? She wondered if her father would even recognise her under the many-layered crust of dirt she had acquired, or whether he would look into dark and hollow eyes and not understand. In any case, there was something she wanted in Cadiz – a medallion containing a miniature watercolour of herself and her brother, commissioned ages ago by their mother. That one night she had not thought to bring it (for why bother if Lelouch had promised to always be by her side?), but now she would have it on her person. It would be nice to sleep in a bed again, to not be hungry, not having to worry about being shot or hanged or garrotted. Cadiz – home had never been half as bad as they had thought it. They had simply been ignorant of the alternative.

But it would not be the same without Lelouch. It would not be _home_. Close your eyes and think of Andalusia; and yet when she tried to imagine her dream was haunted by the black void where he had once stood. People stared at her who had once been friends and said "she let her brother die," "let herself be defiled," and other such things. The sun was cold and its light dark, carpet hard and floorboards soft.

There was nothing in Cadiz that she could not do without. There was nothing in Cadiz that she would desire, but for that medallion. But in the end, her mother's sword suited her better now.

What else remained? An idea entered her mind – years ago, she had read of a Swedish woman by the name of Carin du Rietz, who had served in the royal guard in the guise of a male. Though she could not recall any, she believed there had been other, similar cases involving both Swedish and Spanish women. The idea did not appeal much to her – there was no reason to disguise her sex, nor did she believe she would fit well into the strict discipline of a line regiment. But on the other hand, she could enlist under her brother's name, which was appealing per se, and fight against the French that way. Of course, if she was discovered, that was it for her. She doubted the Inquisition would get involved, but even if she was granted a royal pardon and a military pension – as du Rietz and others had been – she would never be able to fight the French again, and what if she did not succeed in time?

She thought around the issue for several minutes, trying to find other faults with the idea, but found very little. Certainly nothing she could not deal with; if she was discovered by some nosy soldier, she needed only be swift enough to arrange for him accidentally brutally stabbing himself in the stomach while shaving. If she was wounded, she would struggle so much as to make treatment impossible to avoid discovery. It seemed to her the best course of action.

Eventually, she was certain enough that all of the highwaymen around her were fast asleep. Slowly Nunnally rose from the hard forest ground, made sure her sword was still there, then took her coat. Having retrieved the saddlebags and tack she had set aside, with catlike tread she tiptoed between the sleeping bodies towards the edge of the clearing, where the horses had been tied. Most of the horses slept, some on the ground, some standing, a few were grazing. She found Nemo in the second category and softly stroke the light chestnut mare's side to wake her up. For a moment she feared the horse's nervous whinnying would alert the men, but soon she managed to silence it, untied it and carefully led it away. She did not dare mount nor halt until she was about fifty rods from the camp. Then finally she dropped Nemo's reins and hurried to saddle her. The usually calm and obedient mare struggled a little when she tried to put the bridle on, perhaps because her hands were shaking? She wondered what would happen if she was discovered by one of the highwaymen. Desertion, in a way, wasn't it? The punishment for desertion was death. Todo was an old soldier, clearly he understood that to forfeit one's colours meant to forfeit one's life, and would act accordingly.

Finally she had finished saddling Nemo, who had calmed down to a reasonable degree. Nunnally took a deep breath. _Do not hesitate, _Lelouch said, _I am with you. _Her brother's words conjured a smile upon her lips. One hand resting on the saddle, she once again sought the reassuring hilt of the rapier by her side. A poor substitute for her brother's hand, but at least they were together, in a way. _Cherubino alla vittoria_, Lelouch hummed, _alla gloria militar_. Her smile deepened and she lifted herself into the saddle.

"Where do you think you are going, Señora?"

She almost fell of her horse. Only a dozen yards or so away from her, leaning against a tree, stood Todo, eating an apple. Nunnally struggled to regain her composure and ground out the first thing that came to her mind. "Do you never sleep?"

"No rest for the wicked," he said. "I noticed you were upset and didn't want to take any chances."

It was hard to think straight. She could almost picture herself facing the makeshift firing squad – or would they use a sling? A rope could be reused. In any case, this was unacceptable. She was armed, and on horseback; if she wanted to, she could ride Todo down then stab him before he could call for help. If so, she would need to surprise him – the moment he unsheathed his sword, she was lost. She asked for Lelouch's help and guidance, but he did not reply.

Nunnally said nothing, silently stared back at Todo from eyes wide open in terror. She realised that she had already missed whatever moment of surprise she might have had. Still, she was mounted, and gravity would lend additional power to her thrust, but not speed –

"So," Todo calmly repeated, "Where are you going?" He took another bite from his apple.

There was a long pause. "Away," she then said with as much firmness as she could manage.

"Not very specific."

"What is it to you?"

He shrugged. "Nothing, really. I do believe I might have a right to know, though."

Nunnally hesitated. She could lie and say she was just going for a short ride (in the dead of the night? With two full saddlebags?), but that was no solution. "The border," she stiffly said. "I shall take the king of Spain's coat, disguised. You cannot keep me from doing so."

For a moment she thought to see a glimpse of Todo's disgust on his face. She wondered about it, then she realised that he had tried to dissuade her from waging war. "You are mad, girl. You will not last more than a month. Two, at best. At the first volley from the enemy …"

She sharply interrupted him, eyeing the sword by his side. "I am no coward!"

"Every man is a coward in his first battle, and in the second and third and any other. There are those who do not admit it and clothe their cowardice in tales of glory, those are the worst. There are those who assume stoicism in the face of the enemy, but the only thing that keeps them marching is the fear of the lash. There are those who try to give their fear a meaning by indulging in the bloodshed, and yet will cry the loudest when their time has come. Tell me, Señora, which one you propose to be?"

"Neither. Michael and Samael, and Donna Elvira too."

"Good luck with that. You will be discovered the moment you are given a uniform to change into. If you're lucky, they'll send you home to your father. If you're unlucky, you'll end up as a camp follower."

"If need be, I'll just kill a soldier and take his uniform."

Todo laughed. Though his laugh sounded like a rattling cough, it was surprisingly warm. "I've no doubt you could do that. Try not leaving a bloodstain, though, and then convince his comrades that you are him. No, lass, this path will give you no satisfaction."

Nunnally gripped Nemo's reins tighter, drew her rapier and pointed it at the highwayman. She could do this much without Lelouch's help, at least – just charge and run him through – he barely reacted.

"Your hands are shaking," Todo pointed out. He finished his apple and threw the core into the undergrowth. "I have seen you kill before, and I've no doubt you will do it again." He took two calm steps towards her. Nemo lowered her head to reach some meagre weeds upon the ground, but she pulled back the reins, still pointing her rapier at Todo. "But not for a moment I believe that you will kill me."

She ground her teeth. It shamed her, but he was right. For the past year, this man of La Mancha had been her sole friend, teacher, and knight in sour armour. He had given her the second sword and the skill to wield both it and the actual one; and for a time, he had soothed even Lelouch from her Erinys into a gentle lover. Could she kill him? With a lot of luck, perhaps. Would she? No.

_If he stands in our way, he is the enemy_, Lelouch finally interjected. "If you stand in my way – if you try to keep me here – you are my enemy," she said.

Of all possible answers – a drawn sword, a threat, further argument – she had least expected: "Then go!"

She did not dare move. _The moment you turn your back, _Lelouch speculated, _he will attack you. _Something about this didn't seem right – it was not like Todo to stab her in the back … or was it? She figured she didn't know him as well as Lelouch did … She stayed where she was. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Todo merely shrugged. "You are free to leave. I have no authority over you. Off you go."

"… I could rat you out."

"By tomorrow we'll already be gone. By next week we'll be halfway across the country. You could never find us."

Nunnally lowered her sword – pointless, she would not use it. _Just ride away, _Lelouch commanded her. _Remember your vow? _… She remained rooted on the spot. "Why would you let me go this easily?," she rasped. "Why teach me if I won't fight by your side? What's in it for you?"

"Nothing. Truth be told, I pitied you, and I was bored. By taking you under my wing, I not only busied myself for a while, but also gave you the means to do what you want to do …"

"Must do."

"No one is forcing you to do anything. What you are about to do – go and die in false combat glory – might be folly, but it is your own decision. I still do not want to hear what happened to you a year ago, but it is clear to me that you will fight the French. But the girl I found sobbing by the road last year would have died within days. The woman you are now … well, at the very least you'll go down with a fight. I am strangely proud of you."

"And yet you want me to stay."

And for what seemed like the first time in decades, a genuine smile appeared on the highwayman's mien. "Because you are not yet ready. Your own delusions misguide you, your blind fury impairs your judgement."

_I am no delusion, _Lelouch said. _You know that. _She did know that, but Todo's words sounded convincing, in a way. Her decision to leave the highwaymen, for example, had been impulsive and – as proved by the fact that everything had gone awry – ill-conceived. _Then try again next time. _But what if there wouldn't be another time?

Nunnally slowly let go off the reins and slid out of the saddle. Somewhere up in the treetops, an owl hooted. "What would you have me do?," she quietly asked both her knights. _Kill him and flee, _Lelouch implored her, his voice serpentine. _Don't you see?_ He is the enemy. He is trying to keep you from me.

"Stay. Wait," said Todo. "Learn. This war will not be over so soon, that much is clear. You will have plenty of opportunity to fight the Revolution … when you are ready."

(The gentlest scream:) _Kill him!_

Nunnally slowly nodded, took a step forward towards Todo. She said: "… if you lie to me … don't lie to me."

"I won't."

Then, she nodded. She tried to grasp her brother's hand, only to reach for thin air. Again she nodded. Then, Nunnally collapsed, sobbing, against Todo's chest.

* * *

Not much need for explanation in this chapter. I might note that I am firmly of the longish-side of the round vs. long breads debate.

The War of the Pyrenees was one minor theatre of the War of the First Coalition against the French Republic, but one of the most bloody. The French declared war on Spain on 7 May 1793, a few days after also declaring on Britain. Since the armies of the Republic were woefully unprepared, Spain took the initiative early on but began suffering defeats after Captain-General Antonio Ricardos died of pneunomia in 1794. On the French side, the Armies of the Western and Eastern Pyrenees were infamous for their strict discipline and the brutality of its political officers; one commander after another was executed for treason, aristocratic tendencies, or the mere crime of defeat. As Voltaire quipped based on similar proceedings in Britain much earlier; "In this country we think it good to kill an admiral from time to time to encourage the others." The war nevertheless ended with a total French victory in 1795, and the following year Spain entered an alliance with France (which lead to the Anglo-Spanish War and the peculiarly named War of the Oranges).


	13. Decline and Fall

I had to rewrite the first half because I am an idiot. I also had to rewrite the same half because I've been trying out ligatures. Written under the influence of _Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg. _Gino in a Pickelhaube prompts insane giggling.

** alalala221: **Glad you're not offended. Well-spotted on Dumas, this fic is at least to some extent inspired by it - I believe. I had the first plot bunny (which included pirates) swimming in a pool in Cambodia, and read the German translation of _The Count of Monte-Cristo _the very same week (thank Boney for free e-books), finishing it in the plane to Dubai. So, yeah, it is certainly influenced by it to some degree. There's a reference in this chapter to something the Count says at some point, let's see if you catch it :) (I'm a guy, by the way, and somewhat embarassed by my nickname these days - not because I'm ashamed of having watched A:TLA, but because it sounds kinda cheesy.) Cheers, and thanks a lot for your review!

* * *

**Decline and Fall**

* * *

"Isn't that precisely what you have always advocated? A single strong hand to lead the …"

"I never advocated anything of the sort, you're putting words in my mouth. All I ever said was that the revolutionary government is unable to govern due to its endless bickering."

"… which the Danton Committee will alleviate by mediating between the armies, the Assembly, and the judiciary. The Americans have their president, the English have their king, and I never hear you complain about either George …"

"Just listen to yourself! Have you ﬁnally come to sense, woman, or are you betraying your ideals without even realising it?"

"Do explain."

"All the time you're raging against tyrants and despots. Well, Danton's committee is shaping up to be more tyrant than King Louis ever was."

"You have no idea, Lelouch. Madame Malkal assures me that Citizen Danton is the most passionate republican, the most vigorous defender of popular sovereignty she has ever met …"

"Dear God."

"_What._"

"You're beyond sense, Cecilia. Excuse me, but I've got a demonic regime to overthrow."

"Yeah, just run off with your tail between your legs! _I'm_ third month pregnant, and you don't see me running away from an argument!"

"I _beg _your pardon?"

"I said I'm not …"

"I _know _what you said, I just don't know _what _you said. You're pregnant?"

"Are you blind as well as dumb? It's been obvious for at least a week."

"Well, you might just have put on a little … ouch, sorry. What … what are you going to do about it?"

"That depends entirely on you. I don't particularly care for a child, but I might make an exception for yours …"

"Let's marry."

"Don't be absurd."

"No, I'm serious. Let's get married and have this child."

"… we'll see."

* * *

_Venice, June 1793_

* * *

The service was exalted, as always, all incense and four choirs in the four arms of the basilica, candles and diluted sunlight making the splendorous gold-ground mosaics of the lives of the saints and Christ Pantocrator shine and glimmer. The patriarch's voice carried strongly throughout the cathedral as he transﬁgured the host.

"Check," said Lelouch, moving his pawn forward to king's rook's seventh, taking Haliburton's king's rook's pawn and freeing his queen. Haliburton frowned, then took his queen with his knight. "… and mate." Bishop to king's knight's sixth.

"Oh, damn," his opponent said. "Didn't see that coming …"

"Moving your king's bishop's pawn to the ﬁfth was a mistake," he pointed out. "Leaves your kingside far too open. Another one?"

"Er, not right now," the Scot replied with a quick glance over his shoulder at the packed benches behind them, "People are staring already." He began to pack the travelling set's tiny pieces. "Why are we here anyway?"

"Because it's the Day of Udine," Kallen Campocitta beside them pointed out in a low voice. "A festival of thanksgiving for the Venetian victory over the insidious Patriarch of Aquileia in 1420. And because you wanted to hear that Galuppi _Gloria_, as if …"

"Look," Lord Gino von Weinberg-Aschenbach excitedly interrupted her, discreetly pointing out a young lady on one of the galleries, "that's the Marchesa Attavanti." Lelouch couldn't quite see what made her so remarkable, except for being extremely well-endowed.

Campocitta elbowed her ﬁancé. "And what's so special about her, huh?"

"Er, I was complimenting her, er, dress. Yes. e dress."

She laughed and kissed his cheek. "Well, as long as you don't compliment her too much …"

"How could I ever, with you for comparison." Someone in the row behind them hissed at them to be quiet.

Haliburton chuckled at their friends' antics. "By the way, has Cecilia said if she'd come?"

Lelouch shrugged uneasily. "I've asked her to join us, yes. I don't think she'll come, though … she was ill-disposed today." He disliked having to lie to his friends – particularly one whom he owed this much – but neither did he know how to tell them. After all, he _was_ in the wrong. Every kiss and be it but so tender between him and Cecilia was a slight to the honour of Matteo Dupole, third _capo _of the Ten, and their friend as well as his. He ﬁgured Cecilia's friend would understand and the Prussian poet might as well, but that wouldn't make it any easier, or less embarrassing before Haliburton. And that was the least of his problems – he dreaded the day Dupole's third consequent term as a head of the Council of Ten would end. When he would leave the Doge's Palace, he would head to Ca' Rezzonico without delay …

"She's been sick for weeks," Campocitta expressed her concerns. "In fact, I haven't seen her for at least a month. That's not like her. Do you think it's something serious? I hear there's been cases of the typhus on the Giudecca …"

"Everyone gets sick once in a while," von Weinberg-Aschenbach pointed out. "It's probably nothing."

His ﬁancée crossed her arms and puffed up her cheeks. She was just about to start on an angry tirade about taking responsibility, caring for friends, and female intuition, when a murmur went through the congregation of the faithful. Lelouch rose a little to see the cause of the disruption. From the passageway connecting the basilica to the Doge's Palace, an old man in a gold brocade robe and ermine mantle had entered, a white cloth cap upon his powdered wig, and with arthritic hands waved a few times. The Doge Manin. Behind him, several gentlemen in both crimson and black velvet robes and rectangular shoulder-plaid entered with their ladies. When the Prussian exile asked, Campocitta explained that the ones in red were members of the Signoria, the minor council (she used the word "Geheimrat" to illustrate its duties), while the ones in black robes were of the Council of Ten, which functioned as the supreme court of the nobility and supervised the three State Inquisitors – one red, two black.

Lelouch wasn't listening to her explanations, for amongst the black councillors he had discovered Mao Dupole, the only one without an old-fashioned wig dusting down on his shoulders; and beside him Cecilia. She looked stunning in a new yellow dress, but after a moment realised that something was wrong. She kept her eyes lowered, her imperious demeanour replaced by timidity. Mao's hand rested on her lower arm, even as they seated themselves behind the Doge.

"Isn't that Cecilia?," Haliburton exclaimed.

"Doubtless. Do you see _il negro _next to her? at's Mao."

"White suits him better," von Weinberg mused, "but I imagine he's dying to try on the gold. Seems his term is over …"

"High time. He's held the ofﬁce of _capo _for three months at once when it should rotate monthly. Such imprudence would not have been permitted a hundred years ago …"

Lelouch didn't listen. Even from this distance, and even though the skirt of her dress fell loosely from just under her breasts, he could discern the slight bulge of her belly. Had Dupole noticed? His face, or what he could see of it, gave away nothing, though his smile as he chatted with the elderly Doge seemed somewhat forced.

Cecilia did not seem to notice him, and for the rest of the service he tried to subtly gain her attention. Mechanically he rose with the others to join the procession to the Communion table.

He was not disappointed. Mao had ﬁnally let go of her arm and was quietly chatting with _il Rosso_, the ducal councillor that chaired the three State Inquisitors, and his wife. Gladly, the men's splendid robes did nothing to divert attention, and the moment they proceeded to take Communion, a cloud of petitioners and sycophants formed around them. Cecilia had distanced herself from the group to join another queue and Lelouch managed to cut in line just behind her. He tried to kiss her for a greeting, but she drew back.

"You shouldn't be here," she hissed at him as they slowly made their way forward.

"How are you? What happened?"

She struggled to free herself from his embrace. "I'm ﬁne. Well, Mao's back now, so … this has to stop, Lelouch. That … thing between the two of us."

His eyes widened. "I … I'm afraid I do not understand …"

Cecilia stepped back from him and stared into his eyes. "It's over."

The words hit him like cannonshot. What … what was happening? Were had this come from? Frantically he searched his memories for what might have given reason to it, but found none. "But …," he said because he was unable to say anything else, "Cecilia …" He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "But … what about the child?"

"I've been pregnant before. It's a bit late, but still more than enough time to remove it." For a moment she looked as if she wanted to say something, apologise, perhaps, or just explain, then she lowered her eyes and turned away from him.

But he had to know the reason! Had he hurt her? As she slowly moved away from him, he grasped her arm. He had to know – she winced at his touch, as though in pain. Had he done that? God, he had not wanted to _hurt _her … yet then he saw a dark purplish spot on her upper arm that had not been there that morning. "Cecilia … what happened?"

She was quick to cover the bruise with her scarf. "It's nothing," she repeated. "Don't ask." en, her expression turned tender again. "Please … leave. Leave Venice at ﬁrst light tomorrow, for Vienna or wherever you feel destined to be, but you must leave. You're not safe."

"Neither are you. Did he do that?"

Cecilia averted his gaze. "It should be none of your concern."

"But it is …"

"Don't do anything reckless, do you hear me? Farewell, Lelouch. I shall miss you." Hesitatingly, she pressed a brief kiss on his lips, then knelt, made the sign of the cross, and received the body of Christ. He could only watch as she quickly returned to Dupole's side, excused herself on a pretence and left the cathedral through the main gate. Lelouch swallowed the host and walked away without losing sight of Cecilia. He wanted to follow her, comfort her, but there were more pressing concerns.

To the sound of a virtuosic organ recessional, mass ended. Slowly, the congregation dispersed, though the cloud of petitioners around the ducal party only thickened. With the aid of his bodyguard of Arsenalotti, Manin and most of his councillors returned to the adjacent palace, but Mao stayed behind, engulfed in a discussion with an elderly gentleman. Lelouch approached him.

Mao Dupole cut an intimidating ﬁgure even in his absurd robes. His queued snow-white hair contrasted deeply with the black velvet of his robes and plaid, making him seem even more of a titan than usual. e moment he saw him, his visage froze over. Icy blue eyes seemed to throw lightning and thunder at him.

"Sir," Lelouch coldly greeted him. "Upon a word."

"I had been wondering when we would talk," Dupole replied, just as cold, then turned to the elderly gentleman. "Excuse me."

Lelouch led him into a side chapel, then turned to face him. "I have reason to assume that your recent treatment of Madame Cuzzoni has been most ungallant and disgraceful to both her and yourself. On her behalf, I must take offence … and demand satisfaction."

"On the contrary, it is I who am insulted. I thought I had made my intentions regarding Madame perfectly clear, and left her in your care, trusting in your honour as a gentleman of Spain to behave gallantly …"

Lelouch interrupted him. "Then you will certainly ﬁnd that a duel is unavoidable."

Dupole adjusted his shoulder plaid. "I am a decemvir," he then snapped. "My duties to the Most Serene Republic include the _persecution_ of illegal duellists, not taking part in their crime.."

"You will ﬁnd it the easier to name a ﬁeld of honour of your liking, to avoid our discovery. Though I am the offended party, I leave you the choice of weapons, as I am sure to gain with whatever arms you may prescribe."

"… very well. Swords. Tonight on the Lido, at midnight. There is a large beach on the northernmost point of the island where no one will see us. Your second?"

"Mr Haliburton," Lelouch said without hesitation. He hoped the Scotsman would agree, since he had no idea of whom else to take.

"I shall send my own second to take all necessary preparations with him. Good day, _sir._"

Mao Dupole turned with clenched ﬁsts and ﬂowing robes and left the basilica.

Lelouch looked after him for a moment as he hurried across the nave. He was fairly certain that he had made the right choice. As he had no time to lose (suppose Haliburton declined, he would have to ﬁnd a new second in a city of strangers before morning), he hurried back up to the bench he had left his friends at. Apparently they had been looking for him, for relief stood written in their face when they saw him, yet Haliburton realised that something was off and rose. "Where've you been?," he asked with genuine concern. "What's happened?"

He took a deep breath. "Mr Haliburton … I have to beg a favour, yet again."

"Anything … if there is any way I can help you, just say it."

A smile ﬂickered over Lelouch's lips. He would one day have to repay his friend for all the generosity he had shown him for more than a year. "You may ﬁnd that you would prefer not to have said that … I need you to second for me."

Campocitta gasped and von Weinberg jumped to his feet, but the Scot didn't even ﬂinch. "Gladly. Leave everything to me."

* * *

Having settled a few details with Haliburton, they parted. He needed to see Cecilia. There were things they had to talk about; and had to tell her of his arrangement with Mao. If he were to die, though he did not think it likely, Lelouch felt obliged to explain his motivations in person. He got on a hired gondola by the Piazetta and told the gondolier to punt him to Ca' Rezzonico. At long last, summer had come to Venice, and with it the heat and the pervading sweetly stink of the lagoon. Indeed, the stench seemed to him like that of a rotting body, a conception which the crumbling palazzi along the Canal Grande did nothing to lessen. Cecilia had been right on this issue; he had spent far too much time in Venice – but he would stay as long as necessary, for her sake.

He paid the gondolier and got off at Ca' Rezzonico. He found the main gate closed and no servant in sight, so he walked around the palace to use the landside entrance. Again, the gate was closed, but when he knocked, a downstairs maid appeared and opened it a little. "Signore?"

"I need to talk to your mistress," he said. "She likely expects me by now."

"I'm sorry, Signor Lamperouge," the girl replied quite unperturbed, "Madama takes no visitors today. Come back another time."

"She will meet me," Lelouch insisted. "Just let me in."

"Her orders were quite clear, Signore. She will receive no visitors, and expressly forbade us to allow you in."

He was at a loss. How on earth was he supposed to explain, to protect her, if she would not even speak to him? "Listen, girl," he sharply said, "you can either let me in now and risk that your lady is slightly annoyed with you, or you can let me inside and …" Lelouch broke off when the servant girl jumped back a step in surprise and the door was opened from inside.

"Father Ottavio," he said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Signor di Lamperouge. Might I …" The priest gestured to the entrance and Lelouch stepped aside. "I have heard a lot about you from Madame," he then said. "I did not make the connection, though. I am sorely disappointed."

"You know Cecilia?"

"Quite well, in fact. I am her confessor, and used to be … well, her guardian angel, so to say. No, not that way." He forced a humourless smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me …"

Ottavio passed by him, but Lelouch grabbed his cassocked arm and held him back. "Pardon me, Father," he quickly said, "I have a request to make."

"Let go of me."

Lelouch ignored him. "Cecilia won't talk to me, but not of her own volition – ah, she might have told you already. You're her confessor, you say? Then you must talk to her for me, tell her what she won't let me say …"

"I will have no part of your lecherous games, sir. Good day."

"No, don't leave!" Again he grasped the priest's soutane. "Just tell her … tell her that I will duel Mao tonight, for her sake. Tell her that he will not molest her again. And … and, Father, tell her that I earnestly repeat my proposal."

"What proposal?"

"She'll know what I mean."

Father Ottavio scoffed, but then walked back inside the palazzo, slamming the door shut behind him. Overcome with relief, Lelouch sank against the wall. He had once before lost someone without a chance to bid her goodbye, and though he should have explained to her in person, this was better than nothing. ough his dislike for the priest was mutual, at least he could trust him to deliver the message.

The cleric returned shortly. Distaste was written clearly on his face, but Lelouch didn't care as long as he brought news. "What did she say?"

There was a slight hesitation in his reply. "She bids me wish you the best of lucks in your encounter. Surely you are aware that, should you should win, you will have to leave Venice and her Italian empire to avoid persecution? Cecilia asks that you leave without delay for the French port of Toulon."

Lelouch nodded; that was much like her – force him to go amongst the scum of the earth, his sworn enemies. "Alright, but what about her?"

"I am proud to say I have been able to convince her to carry the child, if not raise it herself, that it may one day please the Lord. I have to agree with her decision: it might be wrong to separate a child from its parents, but with all honesty, sir, I would not trust you to raise even your own child in a godly manner. Cecilia has declared her wish to give birth in Venice, but has promised to join you in Toulon and wherever fate may lead you thence … is that sufﬁcient?"

Gladly, he shook the priests hands. "I thank you, Father, from all my heart. You have done me a great good today."

Father Ottavio struggled to free himself. "I would add something in my own cause. I have known Cecilia since she was a girl of seven. I have seen her rise from the gutters she was born in to the most excellent luxury the most luxurious of cities has to offer. But with every step I watched her climb, she fell the height of three steps towards the ﬁery pits of depravity, and I could do nought to stop her downfall. So, I ask of you in stead, sir, that you help her return to grace. Make an honest woman out of Cecilia, Signore Lamperouge. That is all I have to say."

With ﬂowing cassock, the priest turned and paced away across the piazza. After but a few feet, he turned. "One more thing, I almost forgot. She says that she accepts your proposal, whatever that is supposed to mean."

* * *

At half past eleven, the two exiles got in a small rowing boat Haliburton had prepared and set off for the Lido. Lelouch had spent the afternoon reading the papers, then changed – instinctively, he had reached for coat, waistcoat, breeches and boots all in black, with only his neckcloth and cuffs providing a contrast of purest virginal white. It seemed appropriate for the occasion; and he had never seen Mao Dupole in anything other than white.

His Scotch friend was rowing the boat, alone – "I want you to be rested for the ﬁght," he had said with a smile, lighted by a lantern he had thoughtfully brought along. Lelouch was quite thankful for it; he knew his strengths, and stamina was most certainly not among them.

"Have you prepared everything?," he asked as they passed between the Giudecca and the Isola San Giorgio Maggiore. Behind Haliburton's back, the Lido was visible as a black line on the nightly horizon – little more than a gloriﬁed sandbank, some two leagues long and but a hundred yard wide at its widest point; and yet it was the fount of Venice's wealth and glory, protecting the lagoon against both ﬂoods and hostile navies.

"Of course," Haliburton replied with an eerie cheerfulness. "I have made all the customary arrangements with Mao's second. He should already be present to mark the ﬁeld. It's all quite usual – your personal swords, ﬁrst blood, a ﬁeld of twenty times twenty feet marked by wooden stakes. We've also set up torches around the ﬁeld, so you won't go hacking blindly at each other. It's just on the beach, though, so both of you will have to move in the sand. There was no other possibility, but since both of you have the same impediment, there is no prejudice against either side. I must warn you, though, that neither myself nor my counterpart have brought any weapons of ourselves to prevent an unfortunate outcome – so, none of us will be able to interfere. Once the handkerchief touches the ground, you're on your own."

"I would not have it any other way." Lelouch forced a smile on his face. He awkwardly adjusted the smallsword girdled to his side to sit more comfortably – bought upon his arrival in Venice, it had never once been drawn. "I must thank you for all the good you have done me," he said after a while.

"Think nothing of it." Not for a moment did Haliburton's regular, forceful strokes lose their measure.

"No, I insist. Ever since I arrived in Venice, you have shown me kindness far exceeding that one would customarily accord a perfect stranger such as myself. Were it not for you, I would probably be dead by now …"

"I told you," Haliburton insisted, "think nothing of it. I would do it again, as many times as need be, and should gladly perish in your service."

"But I must repay you some way, sir. Whatever can I do to return your kindness? I have nothing in this world but that which you have given me."

Haliburton chuckled. "Well, there might be something … But honestly, it's ﬁne. You do not need to repay me, or reward me, nor even thank me. Just your friendship, sir, is reward enough."

Lelouch wanted to make a reply, but then remained silent. ey closed in on the northernmost point of the Lido, a wide beach at the edge of a wood. As the boat hit ground, a most awkward silence appeared.

"Mr Lamperouge …," his companion began, "Are you a good fencer?"

Lelouch shrugged. "I had a teacher, of course, my mother made sure of that. But, well … I never took much interest in my lessons. When I left home, I would be hard-pressed to withstand my sis... a young girl for more than a few moments."

The Scotsman nodded without looking him in the eye. "I see. Is this your ﬁrst duel?" Lelouch afﬁrmed and Haliburton gave a deep sigh. en, he jumped into the water and pulled the boat ashore. From within a square lit by four wooden torches staked into the ground, a ﬁgure approached them. Since he had his back against the only source of light and it was a virtually starless night, Lelouch could not discern his features. He did recognise his voice, however, as he called out to greet them.

"My lord von Weinberg?," Lelouch called back. "What are you doing here?"

A moment later, the Prussian stepped into their lantern's shine and frowned at Haliburton. "Didn't you tell him?" Haliburton gave him an odd look and von Weinberg turned back to Lelouch.

"Oh, well …," he murmured, " is is awkward …"

"He's Mao's second," Haliburton explained.

Lelouch's eyes widened in shock and he involuntarily retreated a step. "What … but why? I thought you were my friend."

"I am!," von Weinberg was quick to insist. "And I hope we will remain thus. But I am Mao's friend as well and … well, you have to understand that everything is pointing towards Mao being in the right and you in the wrong. I mean, of course he may have mistreated Cecilia, and if she loves you, that's alright, but, well … the way you handled it … was not very honourable. When he asked you to be her cavalier, at the latest, you should have sorted things out with him …"

Lelouch sighed and averted his gaze. "Never mind," he gravely said.

For a moment, no one dared speak. Then, von Weinberg nervously broke the silence. "Er, well … may I see your sword?" Lelouch drew and handed it to him as the Prussian stepped closer to one of the torches to examine the blade. "Not bad," he then said. "Well-balanced, though you shouldn't normally ﬁght duels using _Galanteriedegen_ …" ("Smallsword; or _épée de cour_," Haliburton supplemented), "Thanks. The Irish _Code, _of course, has no problem with them, but still a rapier or sabre would be preferable. Heavier, you see. More robust."

"You seem quite an expert, my lord," Lelouch noted. "You did not strike me as someone quick to get into duels."

Von Weinberg chuckled and rolled up his sleeve to reveal an impressive-looking scar. "I did a lot of fencing at university. It's practically a requirement that students must have scars to show, the more the better. It's all in good spirit, of course: I had friends so good-natured that no one would insult them, so they were made to call a volunteer a 'silly boy', that they too might get their chance to honour."

Haliburton interrupted him, pointing in the direction of the ﬂoating city. "Someone's coming," he said. "Must be Mao." He checked his watch. "Two to twelve. Excellent timing."

Von Weinberg paled, then put his hand on Lelouch's shoulder. "Apologise," he hissed. "Mao is an excellent swordsman. He will kill you if it comes to blows." Lelouch ignored him.

Stone-faced, Lelouch watched as von Weinberg helped the patrician disembark. As expected, he was dressed from head to toe in white, had even gone so far as to wear silk stockings and court shoes instead of more practicable boots.

"Gentlemen," von Weinberg then spoke, leading him to face Lelouch. "Now is the time to apologise for the wrongs you have done each other, and part honourably and amicably. Now is the time to resolve the issue without bloodshed, in a manner pleasing to all parties. Signor de Lamperouge of Spain has grossly insulted Signor Dupole of Venice by duplicitously exploiting the trust placed in him to start an affair with the latter's lady, leading to the lady's disgrace. Signor Dupole has grossly insulted Signor de Lamperouge by violating the honour of the contested lady in a manner not beﬁtting a gentleman, and Signor de Lamperouge has taken it upon him to protect the lady's honour. Since your insult came ﬁrst, Signor de Lamperouge, I now expect your apology."

Haliburton threw him a pointed look, but Lelouch ignored him, spitefully staring back into Dupole's irate eyes. "Never," he simply said.

Dupole nodded in agreement. "Blood must ﬂow."

"First blood!," von Weinberg quickly interjected. "The _Code Duello _is quite clear on that, _ﬁrst draw, ﬁrst sheath, _the moment either combatant is visibly wounded, he has to yield – honourably, of course."

Neither of them did reply. Instead, they silently took positions between two opposite pairs of stakes in the ground, marking the ﬁeld of honour. Desperately, von Weinberg looked to Haliburton for counsel, but yet none came. The Scotsman produced a plain white handkerchief from his coat pocket and stepped between the combatants. "At arms, gentlemen."

Both combatants closed their ﬁsts around their sword's hilt.

"None is to draw until this handkerchief touches the ground. To draw before that would be to forfeit." Haliburton took a deep breath. " is is your last chance to make amends without carnage. I am waiting, Mr Lamperouge … no, well, then Signor Dupole?"

Neither spoke.

"Very well. May the better man win." He opened his ﬁngers and let go of the handkerchief. For a long moment, both combatants warily eyed the square of cloth as it slowly drifted to the ground.

The moment the ﬁrst silken corner touched the sand, before Lelouch had even realised that it had begun, Mao had drawn his sword and charged at him. Lelouch jumped to the side, awkwardly ﬁddling with his sword. It seemed stuck in its sheath – ah, ﬁnally! Quickly he raised it in a basic defensive stance he had learned ages ago, Mao's sword struck his with a light bell-like _clang_. Lelouch retreated a step, already breathing heavily.

His opponent was warily eyeing him from a distance of three paces, calm and relaxed. Lelouch lunged in a weak feint, Mao effortlessly diverted his thrust to the side and, in the same movement, ducked under his sword and thrust his blade into Lelouch's right armpit.

He could see no blood on his black coat, but he knew at once that he had been wounded – not deep, but blood had ﬂown. "Halt," Haliburton shouted, "I need to examine …"

Lelouch didn't give him a chance to ﬁnish. Jumping in, he slashed at Mao's right shoulder, who parried, then thrust at Lelouch's face. As he narrowly evaded the swordpoint, Lelouch realised: _he wants to kill me. _

"Stop!," the Scotsman repeated and was about the jump between the combatants, but was narrowly held back by Gino, "First blood! First blood!"

Mao ignored him and continued to thrust and slash at Lelouch, a ﬂurry of gleaming steel. He was able to parry or evade most of them, but seemed entirely unable to land a blow of his own. By now, he was panting with exhaustion, the light sword was heavy in his hand and he had taken several cuts to brow, hand, and forearm. One particularly vicious thrust from below aimed at his crotch forced him to jump back. _He will kill me._

"Lamperouge has left the ﬁeld, forfeit! Forfeit, I say! Stop!"

"Don't, _du Volltrottel_, you'll get yourself killed …"

By now Mao had the high ground, and as he drove him into the sea, his blows were lent additional force by gravity. e ground under his boots became slippery and soft. Surprised, he looked down, and found that he stood to his ankles in the sea – he almost missed Mao's next blow. Presently of mind he hurried to raise his sword and parry the slash straight down against his head. Under an incredible force, his blade bended and would have shattered, had he had the strength to resist. Instead, his knees gave way and Lelouch fell into the shallow water. He struggled to stand up and perhaps land a lucky blow from below, but almost immediately, Mao had followed him into the water and stepped with the whole weight of his body on Lelouch's blade, pinning it to the ground.

Haliburton appeared to have freed himself from the Prussian's grasp, for he ran down the beach towards them, followed by the other second, shouting all the while.

Lelouch looked up in Mao's face, which sported a satisﬁed smirk. Very slowly, he raised his sword for the coup de grace.

So, he had failed again – not only to win, but to protect someone he loved. _Forgive me, Nunnally. Forgive me, Cecilia. _It was only fair, of course. He had been living on borrowed time ever since his sister had died and he, entirely undeserved, by an accident of fate, had not. He should have died back then, he ﬁgured, on the clearing. Would he join her, wherever she was now? Doubtful, he knew, he had angered a god too many and appeased one to little. Cecilia would laugh at him, fool that he had been.

Cecilia. One thing he regretted, and that was that he had failed to free her from Mao's tyranny. Idiocy; she was too strong for him to hold her forever. Still, he would die in the pursuit of a good cause …

And yet, there was a greater cause still, that he had vowed to pursue until ﬁnal and utter victory … He could virtually hear Nunnally's disappointment in his head. She had never been one to give up this easily. In his place, she would die sword in hand, a smile on her lips … _I will kill him. And live._

Lelouch's hand tightened around the pinned-down sword's hilt, then he slammed his knee into the back of Mao's. The Venetian uttered a surprised cry and went down on one knee, freeing Lelouch's sword as she did so. At once he was back on his feet, and now it was he who held the high ground. He would not be driven into the sea again.

He let Mao get up. His opponent uttered a curse ("maledetto ﬁglio di puttana"), then raised his sword once again.

Lelouch charged at him, feinted to the left, narrowly dodged under a blow aimed at his shoulder that left Mao's side wide open.

He would not get another chance. Lelouch lunged, thrust, and ran his blade through his enemy, just below the last rib on his left.

Matteo Dupole opened his mouth in protest, but no words would come out. Panting, Lelouch still managed to return his smirk as he pulled out the gory blade. Mao took a few halting steps towards him, raised his sword, and fell face-ﬁrst into the sea.

Standing over it, Lelouch turned the body around with his feet. His foe was still breathing, so he sliced his throat. For a moment, he still gasped for air, then he was dead. Bright blood sullied Mao's snow-white coat and neckcloth. He should have worn black.

At last, the seconds ran to his side, both visibly pale, and pulled the body out of the water on the beach. Von Weinberg knelt to close his eyes. "It's only fair," he quietly told Haliburton. "He wouldn't listen to you." And, to Lelouch, he added, "Honour's had its due, and more. It's done, and I stand corrected. You were in the right."

"This proves nothing," Lelouch responded after he had gathered enough breath to speak, touching his armpit. Blood wet his ﬁngers. "There was no right, nor wrong in this matter. I am glad I killed him."

"Mr Lamperouge!," Haliburton jumped to his feet, visibly shaken. "You're bleeding. We'll have to get you to a doctor …"

"It's just a cut," he replied. "It'll heal. Let's leave."

"Don't worry," von Weinberg told them, "I'll take care that his body is given to his family. You must leave, though – in the eyes of the law, you have murdered an elected official."

Lelouch nodded. "I shall leave the country at once. Can you give me a day or two?"

"Of course. On my honour."

Over Mao's corpse, they bid their farewells. Haliburton and Lelouch got in the rowing boat they had come in and again the Scotsman took the oars. In the distance, the city's bells rang one in the morning, and Haliburton steered the boat towards the lights of Venice.

None of them spoke a word. Lelouch could not tell if his friend was angry with him, or afraid, or merely in shock.

"I will leave Venice before dawn," he told him. "I will no longer burden you with my presence. Again, you have my thanks for your hospitality."

"No more of that. It is I who have to thank you for your friendship and company. I would not give it up for all the money in the world. Just give me a moment to pack a few things."

Lelouch frowned. "Pack?"

"Of course. If you don't mind, that is."

"Good God, Mr Haliburton … you don't _have _to come with me."

"But I want to, Mr Lamperouge. I have nothing here in Venice I could not leave behind at a moment's notice. I'll just write to Morrison from on the way and have him sell the house and send me the money, and he can go back to Scotland and do whatever dismissed retainers do. So, you see, there is nothing keeping me – but everything is enticing me to join you. We're friends, aren't we? And friends have to stick together."

He could barely hold back the tears. "Yes, sir," he said, "let us stick together." What had he ever done to deserve such luck? "I owe you my life."

"Oh, not quite. Though, come to think of it, there might be something you could do …"

"Anything."

Haliburton put the oars at rest and reached out his hands. "Call me Rolo."

Without hesitation, Lelouch shook it. "Gladly, if you will call me Lelouch." They embraced each other. "You shall be like a brother to me."

Rolo wryly smiled at that. "Oh, dear. Ah, well. So … where are we going, Lelouch?"

Lelouch cast one final gaze at the lights of Venice in the distance. He had spent far too much time ensnared by her beauty, and would soon hold the greatest of the city's splendours in his arms again. "Toulon," he firmly said, "France."

* * *

Gino is referring the the German academic tradition of _Mensur_, or Academic Fencing. While it originated in the 17th century as an actual duel, it would transform into a highly formulaic ceremony of scarring one another by the middle of the 19th century. It is nearly extinct as of today, but several nationalistic / far-right studentic _corps _continue to practice _Mensur. _The scars are usually on the face, but Gino is such a pretty boy~

A Code Duello is a general code of conduct for duels between gentlemen. They reach back as far as the Roman Empire, but the one in common usage in 19th century Europe was the Irish code from 1777 (There were separate codices for fisticuffs and the Southern United States which probably included slamming each other with slaves). It focused on pistols, but also offers some directions for swordfighting in its 25 rules, most of which concern themselves with kinds of insults that warrant a duel and the proper way of apologising. The many opportunities to honourably withdraw show how concerned Europe's gentry was about preventing deaths in duels. Consequently, deaths were rare in duels - case in point: two French hussars fought a duel in 1794, and fought a further 30+ duels, all with a clear victor and loser, for the next 19 years without either of them sustaining serious injury. They are, BTW, the basis for Ridley Scott's excellent film _The Duellists_ (in the US called _Point of Honor_).

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	14. The Light

There shall be, nay, may be no excuses for my tardiness. I wanted to have this chapter up two weeks ago at the latest, yet let myself be distracted by re-reading ASOIAF, playing the Game of Thrones mod for CK2 (House Blackfyre shall rise again!), listening to Wagner operas (Rienzi!) and other such trifles. I also wrote an insanely long oneshot for _The Borgias _without a real ending. If you're interested, look for Born in the Wrong Century in my profile.

**Guest: **Thanks a lot! Glad you like it.

**Krupp: **Thank you too. Ha, yeah, I'm addicted to CK2. If only I could play multiplayer :/

**Fakku: **You honour me. I daresay that Sturgeon's Law is in full effect here, though there are plenty of excellent stories in any fandom of this size, whether anime or not. I agree however that most AU fics I see hereabouts and elsewhere are deplorable. Glad this one isn't!

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**The Light**

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_Venice, 1793_

* * *

Her circle had shrunken, Cecilia noticed. Beside Mao, Lelouch, and Rolo, who had all left Venice one way or another, Farnese and Manfredi had gone on with their lives as model citizens of a model state. "Gracchus" had returned to being Leonardo Sasso, married a patrician lady and denied any association with her or her dangerous ideals. Cavaradossi and Tosca, while still occasionally present, were busy with the preparations for their move to Rome, where Cavaradossi had been commissioned for a series of portraits by the Papal Court. Nina had at least had the decency to write a letter, explaining that her father feared his prospects of marrying her off would shrink further if she were known to associate with Cecilia. Even her loyal Barnabotti had abandoned her, the masses of impoverished patricians who had once filled her palace weekly. Even they would not be associated with her, and presumably rigging minor elections and selling their vote in the Grand Council was much more profitable than plotting the overthrow of the oligarchy and its most sinister elements, the Council of Ten and the State Inquisitors.

Consequently, all who remained in her salon that Wednesday night about a month after Mao's death and her beloved's spectacular flight were Madame Malkal, Gino, and Kallen – she would, of course, never admit it, but she was grateful for the concern her oldest friend gave her.

Even so, it was not the same. Mao was dead – killed, as everyone knew, by Lelouch over Cecilia. Her pregnancy, now clearly visible even under the wide ungathered skirts she preferred, stood in evidence of that. Gino clearly felt guilty about not having prevented Mao's death, a feeling not in the least diminished by the attentions of the Venetian state he had lately been receiving. Beside the fact that duels of all kinds were illegal in the Republic, he had also been implicit in the murder of a Councillor of Ten and State Inquisitor. Indeed, Kallen had confided to her that the Council of Ten had commanded her – not asked, commanded – to do duty by her country and keep them informed of the Prussian's exploits. Having shown the letter to her fiancé, the two were now openly considering emigrating to the New World. But for now, they were here.

While Gino and Malkal were embroiled in a heated discussion of an essay she had published last week, Kallen leaned in with a worrisome expression on her face. "Are you alright?," she asked. "You don't look well."

Cecilia gave a wry smile and swallowed a sharp reply. "It's nothing. My state, no more … motherhood is proving to be most uncomfortable."

"How will you support it?," Kallen asked. "You cannot find employment again with a child."

"I won't have to. Between us …" Cecilia threw a quick glance at Gino and Malkal, then leaned in to Kallen. "Lelouch will by now have arrived in Milan. Once the child is born, I will join him."

She could tell her friend did not believe her. "You think he'll wait?"

"I know he will."

The former courtesan's smile softened. She was about to say something when a servant entered the room and whispered into Cecilia's ear: "Madame, there is a gentleman in black at the door demanding entrance."

For a brief moment, her heart soared. "A gentleman in black?" The image of Lelouch, still clad in mourning, appeared before her inner eye. Had he returned for her, fool that he was? Was that the reason he had not yet sent a letter?

"Yes, Madame. Black robes of state. He has shown me a letter with the seal of the Ten – it seemed genuine. He has several attendants with him, and all are masked."

Cecilia noticed that Gino's and Madame de Malkal's discussion had ended. Everyone was staring at her. She knew to read the signs – only the Council of Ten, the secret court, the swift sword of justice, wore black robes. Furthermore, the wearing of masks was prohibited after the end of Carnival. Looking at Kallen, she took a deep breath. "Show the noble lord in."

No one spoke while the servant was gone, and when moments later calm, measured footsteps – lacquered shoes on marble – could be heard from the adjacent rooms, no one had moved an inch. Cecilia sat up straight on her chaise longue, her hands gripping her knees. The door was opened, and in stepped the Councillor.

A tall man, his figure was obscured by a black cloak and the black velvet robes he wore underneath. His hands were covered by black suede gloves. Under a hood and a black felt tricorne, his face was hidden by a large and featureless mask of ivory and silver. Slowly, he lowered his head in greeting. When he spoke, his soft voice was distorted and echoed by the mask. "Signora Cuzzoni."

"My lord … how may we be of service?"

"I am sorry to disturb you. My name is Francesco Foscarini. The successor of Signor Dupole as second State Inquisitor. Here, my seal." Glancing at it, Cecilia recognised the bend of lozenges of the Foscarini arms. She invited him to sit, he politely declined. "I am afraid I have not come to break my bread with you, Signora. The Justice of the Lion is swift and sure, and after careful consideration, the Inquisition of the Most Serene Republic has decided to strike down on certain subversive elements in our state. By authority of the State Inquisition, of the Council of Ten, sitting with the Signory and Doge of Venice, of the Grand Council of the Republic and Saint Mark the Evangelist, I declare this salon dissolved and banned for the dissemination of revolutionary propaganda."

Madame de Malkal jumped to her feet, perhaps to give a fiery oration on freedom of speech, but Cecilia forestalled her. "On what grounds? This is a place of discussion, not of action."

"We are watching you closely, Signora. You have been under observance by the Masters of the Night and the secret police for over a year, as have the rest of you. Though you are not guilty of treason _per_ _se, _you have been proven to be complicit in an illegal conspiracy to destroy the constitution of our Republic by violent means. You should be glad to keep your lives. The last conspirators who would establish a despotism in our state we hanged upside-down on the Piazzetta, as I am sure you will know."

"I understand," Cecilia quickly said, hiding a smile, "if that is the command of the Ten, we will obey." And though the judgement had destroyed what she had thought to be her lifework, the Inquisitor's words bore a greater meaning, one she had always yearned for: if the Republic was spying on her, she had finally become one of them. One of the best, the foremost.

She escorted her guests outside herself. Madame de Malkal sped past her through the door without so much as a second glance at her, but Kallen remained for a moment. "I don't know how you can be so obliging," she quietly scolded her as the masked inquisitor watched them. "Isn't this kind of tyranny just what we have always been fighting against, Cecilia?"

Cecilia smiled at her. "My fight is done, my love. Once my child is born, I will leave the city of my birth and life, perhaps never to return. If you want to fight on, feel free to do so – there is nothing I can aid you with."

"You loved Venice. Our country."

"Indeed I do, with a fervour reserved for the exiles and the disenfranchised. Her stones and canals, her masks and actors. There is nothing I can do for her."

"The Republic is dead," the inquisitor said. "Passed away in her sleep seventy-five years ago. We must do duty by our country still."

"You have given up," Kallen insisted.

"I have not given up. I am become a trueborn daughter of the lion."

* * *

Months passed, and a servant appeared to serve coffee. To her displeasure, she noticed that he had brought out the good service. She had intended to pawn or sell it at some point, not use it – least of all today. Cecilia was not sure just what image she wanted to project to her visitors: the struggling penitent, or the imperious lady? Neither was entirely to her liking; hence, it was likely safest to stay in the middle. She would have to chide the servant later – not that it was his fault; in an effort to economise she had dismissed most of her household in favour of greener, but cheaper ones.

Her visitors didn't seem to notice. Visitors, she thought, not guests: guests would imply they were welcome. The manservant poured three cups of coffee and served them to herself and her two visitors. When he had left, Cecilia straightened her back and asked: "Why are you here, gentlemen?"

The two men on the sofa across looked at each other. "Madame," said then Baron Enrico Dupole, cousin and heir to the late Mao, "first of all, please allow us to express our, er, heartfelt condolences. We know the relationship between yourself and Matteo was … intense, and understand you must be distraught at his death."

Cecilia was in no mood for games. "We both know that is not true, my lord," she said. "I would appreciate it if you got to the point."

Dupole seemed rather miffed at her rejection of his offer – an honourable way out, she knew, but she for her it would have been a defeat. Luckily for him, her other visitor, Alvise Contarini, brother to Matteo's widow, took the initiative. "The reason we are here, Madame – and you will forgive us our honesty, our directness, for it is a serious matter – is that, while my late brother-in-law was a good-enough politician and merchant, he evidently was very bad at spending money. To buy Ca' Rezzonico the moment the Rezzonicos went extinct, then just give it away …"

"What Signor Contarini is trying to explain," Dupole nervously interrupted him, "is that Matteo's rash expenses have placed my family – and his family – in some considerable embarrassment."

"Do explain."

"Madame … this palace you live in was bought using assets from our family's estates near Bergamo – indirectly, via Matteo's trading company. In order to equip ships and buy merchandise, my cousin sold vast tracts of land, often under worth."

She raised an eyebrow. "But surely his exploits turned a profit."

"Admittedly, yes. We have decided to wind up the company, of course. Trading is no fit occupation for a family inscribed in the Golden Book. Matteo should have known better, but apparently he did not want to be a gentleman. In our modern age …"

"Trade was, and remains, the lifeblood of our Republic," Cecilia pointed out.

"The Republic is dead, Madame."

Cecilia barely reacted. Still, when she replied, her voice was notably sharper. "Sirs, as you can see I am in an interesting condition. I would appreciate it if you would be brief and to the point."

Dupole looked at his companion, who sighed. "Ah, well. Madame: you have no right to this house. It was ill-gotten and, by right, belongs to Matteo's widow, my sister, and not his … well, courtesan. We are not inconsiderate of your … condition, though, and – formally – we offer you a lifelong annuity amounting to four hundred Sequins. _Per annum_, of course. More than enough to live a modest, but pleasant live. You will never have to take a client again and can raise your bastard as a gentleman or -woman. In return, we ask only that you leave this house and return it to its rightful owners. … what do you say?"

Softly, she put down the empty cup and rested her hands on her belly. Closed her eyes. Thinking rationally, there was no reason to deny them their wish. An annuity of 400 Sequins was more than generous and quite sufficient to lead a modest establishment of three to five servants, later on a tutor for her child. And beside that, she would have Lelouch by her side – though she had not known his name, his bearing and excellence suggested aristocracy. Perhaps he sat to inherit land in Spain? The rents, in whatever height, would be a welcome addition.

It was an acceptable offer, and she could see the reasoning behind it. But some part of her bristled at the suggestion, would not give in. As a child, she had liked to watch the patricians in their lacquered gondolas and imagine herself in their position – living in the most excellent luxury known to man, the most supreme comfort. A palazzo by the Canal Grande with a library (Father Ottavio having taught her to read) and a garden, and servants to ease her life. Despite her dreams, she had known that she would live and die in the slums of Cannaregio she had been born in. She had been proven wrong when a rich libertine had desired a young girl for his entertainment and her mother had been all too willing to offer her. At twelve years, Cecilia had become his mistress.

She had been proven wrong, and had gained all and more she had dared to dream of. She had become a lady of society, a courtesan in the fashion of the greats from the 15th and 16th centuries. If she was not one of the best, she was at least _notable_, and the only one she would bow to was the Lion himself. She would _never again _be treated like a common whore. She had never been one. Cecilia opened her eyes. "Signori, I thank you for your generous offer. And I reject it."

Her adversaries' eyes widened, clearly, they had not expected this. "But … why? It is quite acceptable, surely … we can talk about the exact sum."

"Because I will not be bought, my lord Contarini. Because I will not be kept." She rose to her feet, somewhat tryingly. "Good day. You will excuse me."

* * *

In spite of good intentions and her best efforts, Cecilia's accounts were a pitiful sight by the end of the following month, September. She was late in the eight month of her pregnancy, large with child and by now quite ambivalent towards her decision to keep the child: though it was Lelouch's, she dreaded the day her water broke, and in any case she was sick of having to go to the bathroom hourly day and night and being tormented by relentless kicks. Kallen had quipped that her son (for surely it was a son) was overeager to join the French republican forces besieging the rebellious port of Toulon.

But her fears and displeasures where overshadowed by the pressing monetary difficulties faced by herself and her household. Keeping the palazzo properly staffed and maintained cost her some fifty-five Sequins each month; and even after dismissing most of her staff, the house alone came at thirty golden Sequins, monthly. Add to that twenty Sequins' worth of foodstuff, fifteen to keep herself appropriately clothed and her servants liveried, ten for various other expenses. Beside all that, the Dupole family had taken her to court to reacquire the palazzo, and Cecilia knew she could not win the case. So far, she had been saved by her lawyers and the cumbersome procedures of the _Auditori vecchie alle Sentenze_, the civil court concerning itself with Venice and the State of the Sea, but that too cost money. Before, she had lived off "gifts" (payment, really) from her rich patrons, but that clearly was no option. By now, her savings were depleted and she had begun selling rare books, paintings, and furnishings from the palazzo by way of a discreet agent.

Hence, she had taken loans – a little here, a little there, but she doubted any of the banks she had approached had any illusions about her ability of repaying the money. The interest was huge, and even then she'd had to give up the palazzo as a security. By now the banks had naturally realised that she would either default or flee the country, and were desperately trying to get their money back. Cecilia intended not to give them cause for complaint; she had little desire to spend the next few years inside a debtor's prison. And so she had summoned her lawyer and her confessor to aid her with what she must do.

They sat around a large square table strewn with documents in her library. If she could not repay, nor take new loans, she must at least stall her creditors; she would undoubtedly lose at court. Hence, they wrote letters, sending a few ducats here, pleading for extension there. _Pray pay Signors Garamond & Manuzio 23 lb. 5 s.–_ _I am, &c. Cuzzoni. _She set the quill aside, folded and sealed the wax with a drop of hot red wax. Her signet ring depicted an ornate monogram of the letters _C.C.,_ for Cecilia Cuzzoni. Setting the note aside, she dipped the quill into the inkwell once more and reached for another sheet.

"This is folly," Father Ottavio quietly told her.. Her lawyer, a swarthy Padovano named Casaubon, pretended not to hear them. "It is no solution, merely deferral."

"Deferral is all I need," she calmly replied. "In a month or so, I will be in Austrian territory."

"Milan. You mean to go through with it, don't you? God, you really want to do it …"

Resolutely she signed another note of payment. The swash of the second 'z' in her surname was a bit more dramatic than usual. "Of course I will. Lelouch is in Milan, waiting for me."

"I was hoping you would have snapped out of your … infatuation with him by now."

Briefly, a smile flashed over Cecilia's lightly painted lips. "It is not an infatuation," she said. "Accept it, Father. I will miss Venice, that is true, but one must prioritise. Anyway, Milan will not be the end of our journey. I've always wanted to see Florence, and Rome."

"And I tell you, Cecilia, you are making a mistake. Tell me, has your Lord Lamperouge written a single letter since he left? It's been _months_, Cecilia. He's forgotten you."

"There are numerous reasons why no letters might have come through. Mayhap he fears the Ten read my post and does not wish to reveal his presence to them – quite likely that they do, in fact. Mayhap he has no money to send it; mayhap he is ill … I trust in Lelouch. He will not forget me."

Over her brief argument with the priest she had forgotten what she had been planning to write, and consulted her ledgers to find that she owed the Venetian branch of Frankfort's Rothschild bank some three hundred Sequins, at an interest rate of nearly twenty per cent. No, wait, the account was two months old already – make that 302 Sequins, then. She instructed her agent to pay two Sequins to the Rothschilds.

Father Ottavio gave an exasperated sigh and positively stabbed his inkwell with his quill. "You'll realise your mistake soon enough. No matter. Assuming you are fit to travel immediately after the birth, you will remain in the city for at least a month. You do not have the money for that, Cecilia. It is impossible."

"I could borrow."

"From whom? Tell me one bank in the Republic that will give you a loan. There is none, and you know it. You cannot ask Signora Campocitta or her German friend for money, for they have none to spare, and you have no other friends left."

For once, Cecilia could thing of nothing to say. She was no less aware of her situation than her confessor. Giving a sigh, she dismissed Dottore Casaubon. The lawyer hurried to gather his documents and get away from the situation. When he had left, Cecilia took a sip of wine, then turned to the priest again. "Then what would you propose, Father?"

* * *

A week later, she was back in her salon facing Signors Dupole and Contarini. "Madame, I am pleased to see you have reconsidered …"

Cecilia raised a hand to bid him be silent. "I will have none of that, my lords. My lord Contarini, pray tell me, how fares your lady sister?"

"She's fine, I suppose, thank you. She's still in mourning, but she'll be back in society next month." Dupole gave a light cough, and his in-law added: "Of course, there is the matter of her sustentation to consider."

"You surprise me there, my lord. I understand she is a young woman still, well-bred, and comely …" Meaning, of course, that she still had most of her teeth, was not as inbred as she might be, and was not ugly enough to be called homely. "Surely my lord will have no problem finding another husband for her."

Contarini rolled his eyes. "To be honest, it is. My sister is of ancient stock. Over eight hundred years, my family has provided no less than eight doges, you must know., and we have considerable holdings around Padoa and elsewhere in the Terraferma and in the Heptanese. My late lord father married her – beg your pardon – under station, out of monetary concerns which have no place in polite society. Unfortunately, there are no more than about forty extant _case vecchie_ of any note, none of them with sons of marriageable age, or unwilling to wed those they have."

"What about a convent?"

"I am afraid my sister must needs remarry. Again, for monetary reasons I would not soil your ears with."

"Of course." She rewarded him with a gracious smile. He did not seem to notice it in the slightest, but Cecilia did not take it as a slight – rumour had it he was of the Greek persuasion. She hesitated, perhaps a little too briefly, before saying: "Forgive me, but I thought had offered me an annuity of 400 Sequins. Suppose I live another fifty, sixty years. I would not presume to comment on my lord Dupole's financial situation, but I had the impression that an expense of even ten thousand Sequin is out of the question, much less twenty to twenty-four."

Dupole flushed red, visibly bristling with anger at her brazenness. Somehow, he managed to grunt out between his teeth: "That … that offer is from the table. You presume too much, _Madame._"

Cecilia feigned obliviousness. "Is it now?"

"What?"

"From the table."

"I have never been insulted thus …"

"Excellent," she calmly stated, "for I have an offer of my own to make. My lord Contarini, may I treat with you instead? It seems your cousin-in-law is having a fit of coughing." She did not give him occasion to reply. "I offer your sister and her family the house at, you will find, quite reasonable terms. I want four for the palace and all its furnishings, the gondolas, the servants, and whatever belongs to my establishment, payable upfront in two weeks. I'll be out and off in four weeks' time, you will never see me again, and have struck quite a satisfactory bargain, discreet and honourable. What say you, sir?"

"Four?"

"Four thousand. I can assure you I intend to live for more than ten years, it's your gain."

"Matteo bought the palazzo at eight thousand," Dupole managed to interject, reaching for his handkerchief. "I say save four thousand Sequins and await the court's judgement."

"At the cost of publicly shaming Signora Dupole once she re-enters society, and with far less certainty of outcome."

Contarini glanced at his cousin-in-law. "We'll have to consider it."

Cecilia smiled and called for tea. By the time they had finished, her solicitor had joined them to draw up a contract.

* * *

"I'm going to die … oh God, I'm going to die …"

The midwife scoffed and rolled her eyes as Cecilia uttered another scream. "Only if you don't shut up, girl. Just push, it's not that hard."

She tried to do as the woman said, constricting her abdomen, only to utter another scream as bloody pain shot through her body. "I can't …," Cecilia panted once her cry had died down, "I'm going to die on this bed … urgh, I'll make you regret that, sir …"

Needless to say, by the time sun set on the Lagoon an hour later, she held in her arms a loudly squalling little … thing. The pain had subsided, the afterbirth had followed mere moments later, and the accoucheuse had announced her the birth of a healthy girl.

It was, in every possible way, a disappointment. She had heard of the alleged joys of motherhood, of how the love between a mother and child was insurmountable and pure. Herself, she found it hard to feel anything but disgust for the slimy red beast painfully suckling at her breast. Even after one of the maids attending to her person had cleaned it, the newborn remained disgusting. With its red and wrinkly skin, awkward proportions, with clotted eyes and a few lonely black hairs on its head, it looked more like a freak of nature than a child of herself and Lelouch. How could two bodies as perfect as theirs produce such a monstrosity? Cecilia had of course seen a few newborns herself in her childhood, but that did not make it any less disgusting.

Cecilia closed her eyes for a moment and told herself that she was being silly, that she had looked the same when newly born, that all infants looked like that and there was neither cause nor grounds for a rash judgement. Yet even then, when she had opened her eyes again, she felt very little in favour of the thing she had birthed, but plenty of indifference. _That_ was what she went through nine months of pregnancy for? Still exhausted, she asked for a glass of water and got it. Then, Cecilia bid one of her maids step closer to her childbed, the midwife having removed herself earlier. "What is your name, girl?," she weakly asked her.

"Antonetta, my lady, if it please you."

It did not, but it would serve. "Antonetta. Good. Antonetta, I want you to take the child away."

The girl frowned. She couldn't be older than fourteen, Cecilia guessed, and likely that was the reason she had taken her into her employ – at such an age, she was like to be a cheap worker. "Take it away, my lady? I … I don't understand …"

Cecilia took the child from her breast and thrust it into the poor girl's arms. Immediately it started squalling. "Take it from my sight."

The maidservant opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes were wide and confused, but at last she shrank before Cecilia's glare, bowed and, with the crying babe held tightly to her chest, walked to the door. The moment she opened it, however, she shrank back when Kallen, Gino and Father Ottavio entered. Had they waited upon her? They must have. The girl Antonetta surrendered the infant at a wink of Kallen's hand, her friend smiled at it and cooed. At once, it stopped crying. "Why, she's beautiful," Kallen said.

Cecilia wondered if she should be jealous. She wasn't. "What are you doing here?," she asked instead, pulling the sheet up to her throat.

"Waiting to see you and the baby, of course. What did you think?" Kallen knelt by her side and kissed her on the cheek. "Congratulations, my love. You must be so happy right now."

"I'm quite alright."

Her friend raised an eyebrow, but was distracted when her husband begged to hold the child. Cecilia shrugged; his reaction to the thing was much the same as Kallen's. She supposed this moment was to be the wellspring of much mediocre poetry.

"Do you have a name for her yet? Or do you mean to confer with Lelouch?"

She hadn't really thought of a name, and now she did not care to. Yet it must have a name, must it not? A child without a name, that would be preposterous. She doubted Lelouch would care overly either. Cecilia briefly looked at the child, then said: "Lucia." Why not. It was as good as any name, she supposed. Come to think of it, though, the etymology was wrong; _Lucius _she believed meant one who was born at dawn, whilst this was born at dusk …

"That's a sweet name," Kallen interrupted her thoughts. Oh well, never mind. "A sweet name for a beautiful little girl. I know already I shall miss little Lucia when you leave us."

"Why miss her?"

"Well, you'll take her with you, of course …"

Cecilia felt a pang of guilt as she realised that she should have discussed this with her closest friend. Now there was no time, and she would have to submit to whatever Kallen would say. Part of her already dreaded carrying the squalling infant all the way to Milan. _Children should be wrapped in swaddling clothes and hung on the wall until they can have a meaningful conversation_. "Ah, I'm not sure," she lied. "I'd rather leave her behind, for a while at least. The journey will be hard, and I have nothing in Milan as yet. I don't want to lose her."

"Surely Lelouch …"

This time she didn't had to lie. Cecilia bit her lip. The truth was, if she had not been in an interesting condition for these past months, she would long since have sought out the Spaniard herself. No letter had come, not a single note. Nor from Haliburton. Lelouch being too ashamed of his deeds to write her sounded almost plausible, but surely Rolo would have written in his stead. A few months ago, a mere two weeks after Mao's death, she had gone to see Rolo's former palazzo and found that some other foreign aristocrat, an Englishman of quality, had taken up residence. He had met her subtle inquiries with some confusion, but honesty, and told her that he had bought the house via an agent and never met the previous inhabitants (though they had apparently left behind quite a mess).

She knew for a fact that she could trust Lelouch, and that Lelouch could trust in Rolo. The sole cause for this enduring silence must then be that something had befallen the fugitives on their flight from the city. Cecilia dreaded the very possibility. Lately, she had dreamed of Lelouch a lot more than before, and more vividly too. Darker. She could not remember the details, but her least dream had involved a pauper's grave. "I … I fear I do not know," Cecilia said. "Whether he has made any preparations, whether he has arrived in Milan, whether he is alive. I need to go there myself, and look for him, as soon as I am fit enough to travel."

"I told you the boy was no good," Father Ottavio grimly said, "I told you so."

"Quiet. I will have no more of that, Father, I beg you." Cecilia sighed and took Kallen's hand. Gino still held the baby, apparently oblivious to what was happening around him as he made funny faces at the thing. "Kallen, my dear … I must ask something of you. I know it is not an easy thing, but please think on it. I cannot take the child with me when I go looking for him …"

Kallen tried to smile, but failed miserably. "But … surely there must be some other way. You're her mother, you'll want to have little Lucia by your side …"

"There is no other way."

"Of course there is!" Kallen had raised her voice in anger, and Cecilia knew she had gone to far. Her friend had always been easy to inflame, and when she did, there was little reasoning. "You could send Gino in your stead, he's Lelouch's and Rolo's friend too! I could go myself, or Father Ottavio! You do not have to abandon your child! Lucia needs a mother, and I believe you need her just as bloody much …"

"Kallen …" The woman whirled around with fire in her eyes. "You've woken the child," her husband scolded her. The babe had begun to cry again, and Gino was softly rocking it in his arms as if it were a kitten or a little dog or any other animal more lovely than what it was. "Cecilia is right. She cannot take the girl with her. Don't worry. We'll look after it as if it were our own."

Kallen gave her husband a long, hard look before finally nodding and squeezing Cecilia's hand. "You come back," she quietly pleaded, trying to hide her tears beneath a glare. "You come back and take Lucia with you. You are her mother. She is your child."

She smiled at her friend, softly. "I promise," she said with no intention to keep the promise. "I thank you from all my heart, my friends. I do not know what I would do without the two of you. I owe you a debt."

Kallen and Gino stayed for about half an hour before the Prussian gently reminded his lover that Cecilia must be exhausted. Father Ottavio remained behind. The look in his eyes was harsh and cool. "Say nothing," she told him. "What would you have had me do instead? I will not keep the little monster."

"You are her _mother_."

"And what, pray, is that supposed to tell me? I had a mother too, once. She _sold _me. Sold me for a handful of coppers."

"And still she raised you, and loved you. It was desperation that drove her."

Cecilia closed her eyes. The infant had started crying again. She was not about to let it nibble at her breasts again. "The child is hungry," Father Ottavio said.

"I can hear it. Make it be quiet, be so good."

The priest gave a deep sigh. "Luckily for you, I was considerate enough to employ a wet-nurse. She'll be here in about an hour, but until then, I recommend you feed your daughter."

She ignored him and tried to ignore the cries. "Spare me your scorn, Father, I have had enough of it to last a lifetime. … A moment of rest would be lovely."

After a moment's hesitation, her confessor took the babe in his arms and removed himself. "Father …," she softly called after him.

"My child?"

"No letters have come, have they?"

"None. I personally inquired at the office of the Postmaster-General, and wrote to the chancery of the Thurn and Taxis imperial mail in Milan. They are not aware of any letters addressed to you, nor of any bearing the names of Lamperouge nor Haliburton. Believe me."

Cecilia nodded silently. She could feel tears welling behind her eyelids. "I must go to Milan," she whispered. Soon. As soon as possible. Would you prepare a carriage for me, Father? I would leave tomorrow … the day after, at the latest. Please."

"It shall be done, my child. Is there anything you have to tell me?"

"No … yes. I ask that you take my confession one last time before I leave, and cleanse me of my sins. And see to it that the girl is baptised, she must be …"

"Of course. By your leave …" He opened the door.

Cecilia realised this might well be the last time they spoke. She had never liked the strict priest overly, but it had still been he who had taught her to read and raised her from the gutter. If not for him, she would be dead, or worse: like her mother. "I … I must thank you, Father. Over the years, you have done so much for me, without ever asking for anything in return. In truth … you were the closest thing to a father I ever had."

The priest slowly nodded his head.

"You are the only one who would never lie to me," Cecilia said. "The only one. Thank you for that."

* * *

_Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee,_  
_And was the safeguard of the West: the worth_  
_Of Venice did not fall below her birth,_  
_Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty._

_She was a maiden city, bright and free:_  
_No guile seduced, no force could violate;_  
_And when she took unto herself a mate_  
_She must espouse the everlasting sea._

_And what if she had seen those glories fade,_  
_Those titles vanish, and that strength decay?_  
_Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid_

_When her long life hath reached its final day:_  
_Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade_  
_Of that which once was great has passed away. _

– William Wordsworth, _Ode on the Extinction of the Venetian Republic_ (1802)

* * *

Regardless of what horror stories you might have heard if you lived in 18th century Europe, Venice never was a true police state. Indeed, she spied on her citizens far less than her contemporary countries, though much more effectively. The Council of Ten, while not a democratic institution, offered itself to cloak-and-dagger stories with its secret collaborations and draconic judgements, and yet it was always beloved by the common people of Venice, for whom it was a safeguard against despoty. The only ones who were spied on were the nobility, and even then the impoverished patricians were ignored as irrelevant to national security.

I don't know if the State Inquisitors ever wore masks in office - probably not. It's cool, though.

The Inquisitor is referring to the Peace of Passarowitz between Austria and Turkey, ending the last of the Turkish-Venetian Wars. After Venice failed to assert her claims to her Greek holdings and Austria made a seperate peace, Venice stopped involving itself in international politics. After 1718, she was irrevocably declining, though not yet quite doomed.

Milan at the time was ruled by the Austrians.

A Sequin was a Venetian gold coin, I refer to the A/N to chapter 10 for an explanation of Venetian coinage.

Frankfort is an older spelling of Frankfurt. The Rothschild were an important Jewish banking family which later ascended into nobility in the peerage of Austria, France, and England. At the time, they had not yet expanded into international business, so it is unlikely Cecilia would have had debts with them.

Garamond, Manuzio and Casaubon are all named for Umberto Eco's _Foucault's Pendulum_.

The Heptanese is an old name for the isles of the western coast of Greece, the Ionian Islands (Corfu and such). They were the last remaining oversea possessions of the Venetian empire.

Cecilia's thoughts towards the end echo a quip by Ser Hyle Hunt from _A Feast for Crows_.

The Princely House of Thurn and Taxis were imperial postmasters-general from the 15th century until the end of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806, then became a private mail service. There's a fun board game about them.

**Please review!**


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